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♦ 

































































































































THE HOUSE OF 
THE WHITE SHADOWS 


By 

B. L. FARIEON 

M J 

Author of 

Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square, 
Grif, Toilers of Babylon, etc. 



NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK : 1903 







THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

OCT 1 1 903 

^ Copyright Entry 

CUSS CL XXo. No, 

Lilts' 

COPY A. 


Copyrighted 1903 

BY 


pz2q 

Wo 

s 

co^ 


New Amsterdam Book Co. 


BENJAMIN LEOPOLD FARJEON 


W E regret to learn that since this book was sent to press 
in this country, its gifted author has passed away in 
London at the ripe age of 70 years. It seems ap- 
propriate and indeed necessary to preface ** The House of the 
White Shadows,’ * on its appearance in America, with a brief 
account of Mr. Farjeon’s life and literary career. Considering his 
popularity it is astonishing how very little is generally known 
regarding this author’s personality. The ordinary reference books, 
if not altogether silent respecting him, have but a line or two, giv- 
ing the date of his birth with perhaps a list of two or three of his 
principal novels. It is sincerely to be hoped that a competent 
biography will ultimately appear, affording to his very many admir- 
ers some satisfactory account of a man who has given the world 
more than twenty-five remarkable works of fiction. 

Mr. Farjeon was an Englishman, having been born in Lon- 
don in 1 83 3. At an early age he went to Australia and from 
thence to New Zealand. It would be exceedingly interesting to 
learn how he employed himself in those colonies. We know that 
he engaged in a journalistic venture in Dunedin, but how long it 
continued or how he fed his intellectual life during the years which 
intervened, until he published his first novel in London, we know 
little or nothing. At all events he returned home and launched 
his first literary venture in London in 1870. It was called “Grif, 
a Story <?f Australian Life.” This story proved to be eminently 
successful, and probably determined its author’s future career. He 
produced “Joshua Marvel” in 1871 ; ‘ * London’s Heart” in 


1 873 ; “ Jessie Trim ” in 1874, and a long list of powerfu 
novels ending with “ Samuel Boyd of Catch pole Square,” pub- 
lished only two or three years ago. Some of these works, like 
“Blade o’ Grass,” “ Bread and Cheese and Kisses,” “Great 
Porter Square,” etc., have been very popular both in England and 
the United States, passing through many editions. 

Mr. Farjeon’s style is remarkable for its vivid realism. The 
London “Athenaeum” in a long and appreciative review styles him 
“ a master of realistic fiction.” On account of his sentiment and 
minute characterization he is regarded as a follower of the method of 
Dickens. No writer since that master can picture like Farjeon 
the touching and pathetic type of innocent childhood, pure in spite 
of miserable and squalid surroundings. He can paint, too, a scene 
of sombre horror so vividly that even Dickens himself could scarcely 
emulate its realism. 

Mr. Farjeon visited the United States several times during his 
long life. Americans have always regarded him with kindly feel- 
ings. Perhaps this kindliness was somewhat increased when it 
became generally known that he had married a daughter of 
America’s genial actor, Joseph Jefferson. 

“The House of the White Shadows” is published in this 
country by arrangement with Messrs. Hutchinson & Co., of Lon- 
don, who have been Mr. Farjeon’s publishers in Great Britain for 
many years. 


THE PUBLISHERS. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


Book I. — The Trial of Gautran. 

I. Only a Flower-girl, 

II. The Arrival of the Advocate, 

III. The Advocate’s Wife Insists upon Having her 

Way, 

IV. Jacob Hartrich, the Banker, Gives his Reasons for 

Believing Gautran the Woodman Guilty of the 

Murder of Madeline, 

V. Fritz the Fool, 

VI. Mistress and Maid, 

VII. A Visit from Pierre Lamont — Dreams of Love, 

VIII. The Interview in the Prison, 

IX. The Advocate Undertakes a Strange Task, 

X. Two Letters — From Friend to Friend, from Lover 

to Lover 

XI. Fire and Snow — Fool Fritz Informs Pierre Lamont 
where Actual Love Commences, .... 

XII. The Struggle of Love and Duty, .... 

XIII. The Trial of Gautran, 

XIV. The Evidence of Witnesses, 

XV. The Widow Joseph Gives Evidence Respecting a 

Mysterious Visitor, 

XVI. The Conclusion of the Prosecution, 

XVII. The Advocate’s Defence — The Verdict, 

Book II. — The Confession. 

I. A Letter from John Vanbrugh, .... 

II. A Startling Interruption, 

III. In the Dead of Night, 

JV. The Confession, 

Hi 


PAGE 


6 

8 


13 

20 

27 

33 

40 

47 

53 

60 

64 

70 

76 

82 

86 

90 


97 

100 

104 

U9 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Book III. — The Grave of Honour. 

I. Preparations for a Visitor, 113 

II. A Love Story of the Past, 118 

III. A Mother’s Treachery, 122 

IV. Husband and Wife, 128 

V. The Gathering of the Storm, 134 

VI. The Grave of Honour, 139 

VII. Husband and Wife, 147 

VIII. The Compact, 155 

IX. Mother Denise Has Strange Fancies in the Night, 158 

X. Christian Aimer’s Child-life 163 

XI. Beatrice Aimer Gives a Promise to Her Son, . . 168 

XII. The Last Meeting between Husband and Wife, . 174 

XIII. The Arrival of Christian Aimer, .... 180 

Book IV. — The Battle with Conscience. 

I. Lawyer and Priest, 188 

II. The White Shadow, 195 

III, The Watch on the Hill, 203 

IV. The Silent Voice, 208 

V. Gautran Finds a Refuge, 216 

VI. Pierre Lamont Reads Love-verses to Fritz the 

Fool, 219 

VII. Mistress and Maid, 225 

VIII. In the Home of His Childhood 230 

IX. Christian Aimer Receives Two Visitors, . . 235 

X. A Brief Survey of the Web, 240 

XI. A Crisis, 242 

XII. Self -justification, 248 

XIII. Shadows, 257 

XIV. The Advocate Fears he has Created a Monster, . 260 

XV. Gautran and the Advocate, 266 

XVI. Pierre Lamont Seeks the Hospitality of the House 

of White Shadows, . . . . . . 273 

XVII. Fritz the Fool Relates a Strange Dream to Pierre 

Lamont, ... 276 


Book V. — The Doom of Gautran. 

I. Adelaide Strives to Propitiate Pierre Lamont, . 284 

II. Gautran Seeks John Vanbrugh, .... 286 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

III. Gautran Resolves on a Plan of Escape, . 

IV. Heaven’s Judgment, 

V. Father Capel Discovers Gautran in His Peril, 

VI. The Written Confession, 

Book VI. — A Record of the Past. 

I. The Discovery of the Manuscript, . 

II. Christian Aimer’s Father, 

III. A Dishonourable Concealment, 

IV. M. Gabriel is Dismissed, 

V. The Thief in the Night, 

VI. The Hidden Crime, 

VII. False Wife, False Friend, . 

Book VII. — Retribution. 

I. John Vanbrugh and the Advocate, 

II. A Terrible Revelation, 

III. Pauline, 

IV. Onward— to Death, 

V. The Doom of the House of White Shadows, . 


X 

PAGE 

. 290 

. 293 

. 299 

• 304 


. 308 

. 309 

• 3i4 
. 320 

. 325 

• 329 

. 333 


. 338 

. 346 

. 355 

. 361 

. 372 


# 


THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS 


BOOK I.— THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN . 


CHAPTER I 

ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 

T HE feverish'state of’excitement into which Geneva 
was thrown was not caused by a proclamation 
of war, a royal visit, a social revolution, a religious 
wave, or an avalanche. It was simply that a man was 
on his trial for murder. 

There is generally in Geneva a rational if not a philo- 
sophic foundation for a social upheaving; unlike the 
people of most other countries, the population do not care 
to play a blind game of follow my leader. They prefer 
to think for themselves, and their leaders must be men 
of mark. Intellect is passionately welcomed; pretenders 
find their proper level. 

What, then, in a simple trial for murder, had caused 
the excitement? Had the accused moved in a high sta- 
tion, was he a poet, a renowned soldier, a philanthropist, 
a philosopher, or a priest loved for his charities, and the 
purity of his life? None of these; he was Gautran, a 
woodman, and a vagabond of the lowest type. It would 
be natural, therefore, to seek for an explanation in the 
social standing of his victim. A princess, probably, or 
at least a lady of quality ? On the contrary. A common 
flower-girl, who had not two pair of shoes to her feet. 

Seldom had a trial taken place in which the interest 
manifested had been so absorbing. While it was pro- 


2 ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 

ceeding, the questions which men and women asked freely 
of each other were : 

“ What news from the court-house ? ” 

“How many days longer is it likely to last?” 

“ Has the monster confessed ? ” 

“ What will the verdict be ? ” 

“ Do you think it possible he can escape ? ” 

“ Why did the famous Advocate undertake the de- 
fence?” 

In fashionable assemblies, and in cafes where the people 
drank their lager and red wine ; in clubs and workshops ; 
on steamboats and diligences ; in the fields and vineyards ; 
on high-roads and bye-roads — the trial of Gautran formed 
the principal topic of conversation and debate, to the 
almost utter exclusion of trade, and science, and politics, 
and of a new fashion in hats which was setting the women 
of adjacent countries crazy. So animated were the dis- 
cussions that the girl lying in her grave might have been 
supposed to be closely related to half the inhabitants of 
Geneva, instead of having been, as she was, a comparative 
stranger in the town, with no claim upon any living 
Genevese on the score of kinship. The evidence against 
the prisoner was overwhelming, and it appeared as though 
a spirit of personal hatred had guided its preparation. 
With deadly patience and skill the prosecution had 
blocked every loophole of escape. Gautran was fast in 
the meshes, and it was observed that his counsel, the Ad- 
vocate, in the line he adopted, elicited precisely the kind 
of evidence which — in the judgment of those who listened 
to him now for the first time — strengthened the case 
against the man he was defending. 

“ Ah,” said those observers, “ this great Advocate 
shares the horror of the murderer and his crime, and has 
undertaken the defence for the purpose of ensuring a 
conviction.” 

A conclusion which could only occur to uninformed 
minds. 

There were others — among them the prosecuting coun- 
sel, the judge, and the members of the legal profession 
who thronged the court — who, with a better knowledge 
of the Advocates marvellous resources, and the subtle 


ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 


3 


quality of his intellect, were inspired with the gravest 
doubts as to the result of the trial. This remarkable man, 
who gazed before him with calm, thoughtful eyes, whose 
face was a mask upon which no trace of inward emotion 
could be detected, was to them at once a source of per- 
plexity and admiration. Instances were cited of trials in 
which he had been engaged, in the course of which he 
had seemed to play so directly into the hands of his an- 
tagonists that defeat was not dreamt of until they were 
startled by the discovery that he had led them into an 
ambush where, at the supreme moment, victory was 
snatched from their grasp. And, when it was too late 
to repair their error, they were galled by the reflection 
that the Advocate had so blinded their judgment, and so 
cloaked his designs, that he had compelled them to con- 
tribute largely to their own discomfiture. 

It was in the acknowledgment of these extraordinary 
powers that the doubt arose whether Gautran would not 
slip through the hands of justice. Every feature of the 
case and the proceedings, whether picturesque or horrible, 
that afforded scope for illustration by pen and pencil was 
pressed into the service of the public — whose appetite for 
such fare is regarded as immoderate and not over-nice — 
by special correspondents and artists. Descriptions and 
sketches of the river and its banks, of the poor home of 
the unfortunate flower-girl, of the room in which she had 
slept, of her habits and demeanour, of her dress, of her 
appearance alive and dead ; and, as a contrast, of Gautran 
and his vile surroundings — not a detail was allowed to 
escape. It was impossible, without favour or influence, 
to obtain admission to the court in which the trial was 
held, and, could seats have been purchased, a higher price 
would willingly have been paid for them than the most 
celebrated actress or prima donna could have commanded. 
Murders are common enough, but this crime had fever- 
ishly stirred the heart of the community, and its strangest 
feature was that the excitement was caused, not so much 
by the murder itself, as by an accidental connection which 
imparted to it its unparalleled interest. 

The victim was a young girl seventeen years of age, 
who, until a few months before her cruel and untimely 


4 


ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 

death, had been a stranger in the neighbourhood. Noth- 
ing was known of the story of her life. When she first ap- 
peared in the suburbs of Geneva she was accompanied by 
a woman much older than herself, and two facts made 
themselves immediately apparent. That a strong attach- 
ment existed between the new-comers, and that they were 
very poor. The last circumstance was regarded as a suf- 
ficient indication that they belonged to the lower classes. 
The name of the younger of the women was Madeline, 
the name of the elder Pauline. 

That they became known simply by these names, Mad- 
eline and Pauline, was not considered singular by those 
with whom they consorted ; as they presented themselves, 
so they were accepted. Some said they came from the 
mountains, some from the plains, but this was guess-work. 
Their dress did not proclaim their canton, and they 
brought nothing with them to betray them. 

To the question asked of them, “What are you?” 
Pauline replied, “Cannot you see? We are common 
working people.” 

They hired a room in a small cottage for three francs a 
month, and paid the first month’s rent in advance, and 
their landlady was correct in her surmise that these three 
francs constituted nearly the whole of their wealth. She 
was curious to know how they were going to live, for 
although they called themselves working people, the 
younger of the two did not seem to be fitted for hard 
work, or to be accustomed to it. 

For a few days they did nothing, and then their choice 
of avocation was made. They sold flowers in the 
streets and cafes of Geneva, and gained no more than a 
scanty living thereby. 

The woman in whose cottage they lived said she was 
surprised that they did not make a deal of money, as 
much because of Madeline’s beauty as of their exquisite 
skill in arranging their posies. 

Had Pauline traded alone it is likely that failure would 
have attended her, for notwithstanding that she was both 
comely and straight-made, there was always in her eyes 
the watchful look of one who mistrusts honeyed words 
from strangers, and sees a snare in complimentary 
phrases. 


ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 5 

It was otherwise with Madeline, in whose young life 
Nature’s fairest season was opening, and it would have 
been strange indeed if her smiling face and winning man- 
ners had not attracted custom. This smiling face and 
these winning manners were not an intentional part of 
the trade she followed; they were natural gifts. 

Admiration pursued her, not only from those in her 
own station in life, but from some who occupied a higher, 
and many an insidious proposal was whispered in her ear 
whose poisonous flattery would have beguiled her to her 
ruin. If she had not had in Pauline a staunch and devoted 
protector, it is hard to say whether she could have resisted 
temptation, for her nature was singularly gentle and con- 
fiding ; but her faithful companion was ever on the alert, 
and no false wooer could hope to win his way to Made- 
line’s heart while Pauline was near. 

One gave gold for flowers, and was about to depart 
with a smile at the success of his first move, when Pauline, 
with her hand on his sleeve, stopped his way. 

“ You have made a mistake,” she said, tendering the 
gold ; “ the flowers you have taken are worth but half-a- 
franc.” 

“ There is no mistake,” he said airily ; “ the gold is 
yours for beauty’s sake.” 

“ I prefer silver,” she said, gazing steadily at him, “ for 
fair dealing’s sake.” 

He took back his gold and gave her silver, with a 
taunting remark that she was a poor hand at her trade. 
She made no reply to this, but there was a world of 
meaning in her eyes as she turned to Madeline with a 
look of mingled anxiety and tenderness. And yet she de- 
sired money, yearningly desired it, for the sake of her 
young charge ; but she would only earn it honestly, or re- 
ceive it from those of whom she had a right to ask. 

She guarded Madeline as a mother guards her young, 
and their affection for each other grew into a proverb. 
Certainly no harm could befall the young flower-girl 
while Pauline was by her side. Unhappily a day arrived 
when the elder of the women was called away for a while. 
They parted with tears and kisses, never to meet again ! 


6 THE ARRIVAL OF THE ADVOCATE 


CHAPTER II 

THE ARRIVAL OF THE ADVOCATE 

AMONG those whom Madeline’s beauty had at- 
tracted was a man in a common way of life, Gau- 
JL JL tran, a woodman, who followed her with dogged 
persistence. That his company was distasteful to this 
bright young creature could not be doubted, but he was 
not to be shaken off, and his ferocity of character deterred 
others from approaching the girl when he was present. 
Many times had he been heard to say, “ Madeline belongs 
to me ; let me see who is bold enough to dispute it.” And 
again and again that it would go hard with the man who 
stepped between hi,m and the girl he loved. Even Pauline 
was loth to anger him, and seemed to stand in fear of him. 
This was singular enough, for when he and Madeline were 
seen together, people would say, “ There go the wolf 
and the lamb.” 

This wretch it was who stood accused of the murder of 
the pretty flower-girl. 

Her body had been found in the River Rhone, with 
marks of violence upon it, and a handkerchief tightly 
twisted round its neck. The proofs of a cruel murder 
were incontestable, and suspicion fell immediately upon 
Gautran, who was the last person known to be in Made- 
line’s company. Evidence of his guilt was soon forth- 
coming. He was madly, brutally in love with her, and 
madly, brutally jealous of her. On the night of the 
murder they had been seen walking together on the bank 
of the river; Gautran had been heard to speak in a high 
tone, and his exclamation, “ I will kill you ! I will kill 
you ! ” was sworn to by witnesses ; and the handkerchief 
round her neck belonged to him. A thousand damning 
details were swiftly accumulated, all pointing to the 
wretch’s guilt, and it was well for him that he did not 
fall into the hands of the populace. So incensed were they 
against him that they would have torn him to pieces. 

Not in all Geneva could there be found a man or a 


7 


ONLY A FLOWER-GIRL 

woman who, by the holding up of a finger, would have 
besought mercy for him. Regret was openly expressed 
that the death punishment for murder was not lawful, 
some satisfaction, however, being derived from the reflec- 
tion that in times gone by certain heinous crimes had 
brought upon the criminals a punishment more terrible 
than death. 

“ They should chain the monster by the waist,” said a 
man, “ so that he cannot lie down, and can only move one 
step from the stake. Gautran deserves worse than that.” 

But while he lay in prison, awaiting the day of trial, 
there arrived in Geneva an Advocate of renown, who had 
travelled thither with his wife in search of much needed 
repose from years of continuous mental toil. This man 
was famous in many countries; he was an indefatigable 
and earnest worker, and so important were his services 
deemed that phenomenal fees were frequently paid to se- 
cure them. But notwithstanding the exceeding value of 
his time he had been known to refuse large sums of money 
in cases offered to him, in order to devote himself to 
others which held out no prospect of pecuniary reward. 

Wealthy, and held in almost exaggerated esteem, both 
for his abilities and the cold purity of his life, it was 
confidently predicted that the highest honours of the state 
were in store for him, and it was ungrudgingly admit- 
ted — so far above his peers did he stand — that the loftiest 
office would be dignified by association with his name. 
The position he had attained was due as much to his in- 
tense enthusiasm in the cause he championed as to his won- 
drous capacity for guiding it to victory. As leader of a 
forlorn hope he was unrivalled. He had an insatiable 
appetite for obstacles; criminal cases of great moment, 
in which life and liberty were in imminent peril, and in 
which there was a dark mystery to be solved, possessed 
an irresistible fascination for him. Labour such as this 
was a labour of love, and afforded him the keenest pleas- 
ure. The more intricate the task the closer his study 
of it; the deeper the mystery the greater his patience in 
the unravelling of it ; the more powerful the odds against 
him the more determined his exertions to win the battle. 
His microscopic, penetrating mind detected the minutest 


8 


THE ADVOCATE’S WIFE 


flaw, seized the smallest detail likely to be of advantage to 
him, and frequently from the most trivial thread he spun 
a strand so strong as to drag the ship that was falling 
to pieces to a safe and secure haven. His satisfaction at 
these achievements was unbounded, but he rarely allowed 
an expression of exultation to escape him. His outward 
tranquillity, even in supreme crises, was little less than 
marvellous. His nerve was of iron, and to his most inti- 
mate associates his inner life was a sealed book. 

Accompanied by his wife, the Advocate entered Gen- 
eva, and alighted at one of the principal hotels, four days 
before that on which the trial of Gautran was to com- 
mence. 


CHAPTER III 


THE ADVOCATE'S WIFE INSISTS UPON HAVING HER WAY 

HEIR arrival was expected. The moment they 



were shown into a private room the proprietor of 


B the hotel waited upon them, and with obsequious 
bows welcomed them to Geneva. 

“ A letter has been awaiting my lord,” said this mag- 
nate, the whiteness of whose linen was dazzling; he had 
been considering all the morning whether he should ad- 
dress the great Advocate as “ your lordship,” or “ your 
eminence,” or “ your highness,” and had decided upon 
the first, “ since yesterday evening.” 

The Advocate in silence received the letter, in silence 
read it, then handed it to his wife, who also read it, with a 
careless and supercilious air which deeply impressed the 
landlord. 

“ Will my lord and my lady,” said this official, “ honour 
us by remaining long in our town ? The best rooms in the 
establishment are at their disposal.” 

The Advocate glanced at his wife, who answered for 
him : 

“We shall remain for a few hours only.” 

Despair was expressed in the landlord’s face as he left 
the room, overwhelmed with the desolation caused by this 
announcement. 


THE ADVOCATE’S WIFE 9 

The letter which he had delivered to the Advocate ran 
as follows : 

“ Comrade,, whom I have never seen, but intimately 
know, Welcome. Were it not that I am a cripple, and 
physically but half a man— represented, fortunately, by 
the upper moiety of my body — I should come in person 
to shake you by the hand. As it is, I must wait till you 
take up your quarters in Christian Aimer’s villa in our 
quiet village, where I spend my days and nights, extract- 
ing what amusement I can from the foibles and weak- 
nesses of my neighbours. My father was steward to 
Christian Aimer’s father, and I succeeded him, for the 
reason that the office, during the latter years and after the 
death of the elder Aimer, was a sinecure. Otherwise, 
another steward would have had to be found, for my 
labours lay elsewhere. But since the day on which I be- 
came a mere bit of animated lumber, unable of my own 
will to move about, and confined within the narrow limits 
of this sleepy valley, I have regarded the sinecure as an 
important slice of good fortune, albeit there was nothing 
whatever to do except to cause myself to be wheeled past 
Christian Aimer’s villa on fine days, for the purpose of 
satisfying myself that no thief had run away with its 
rusty gates. Then came an urgent letter from young 
Aimer, whom I have not beheld since he was a lad of nine 
or ten, begging of me to put the house in order for you 
and your lady, to whom I, as an old gallant, am already 
in spirit devoted. And when I heard that it was for you 
the work was to be done, doubly did I deem myself for- 
tunate in not having thrown up the stewardship in my 
years of active life. All, then, is ready in the old house, 
which will be the more interesting to you from the fact 
of its not having been inhabited for nearly a generation. 
Comedies and tragedies have been enacted within its walls, 
as you doubtless know. Does Christian Aimer come with 
you, and has he grown into the likeness of his father? — 
Your servant and brother, 

“ Pierre Lamont.” 

“ Who is this Pierre Lamont ? ” asked his wife. 


10 


THE ADVOCATE’S WIFE 

“ Once a famous lawyer,” replied the Advocate ; “ com- 
pelled some years ago to relinquish the pursuit of his pro- 
fession by reason of an accident which crippled him for 
life. You do not wish to stop in Geneva, then ? ” 

“ No,” said the beautiful woman who stood before him, 
his junior by five-and-twenty years; “there is nothing- 
new to be seen here, and I am dying with impatience to 
take possession of Mr. Aimer’s villa. I have been think- 
ing of nothing else for the last week.” 

“ Captivated by the name it bears.” 

“ Perhaps. The House of White Shadows ! Could 
anything be more enticing ? Why was it so called ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you. Until lately, indeed when this holi- 
day was decided upon ” — he sighed as he uttered the word 
“ holiday ” ; an indication that he was not accepting it in 
a glad spirit — “ I was not aware that Aimer owned a villa 
hereabouts. Do not forget, Adelaide, that he cautioned 
you against accepting an offer made in a rash moment.” 

“ What more was needed to set me longing for it ? 
‘ Here is a very beautiful book,’ said Mr. Aimer, ‘ full of 
wonderful pictures ; it is yours, if you like — but, beware, 
you must not open it.’ Think of saying that to a 
woman ! ” 

“ You are a true daughter of Eve. Aimer’s offer was 
unwise; his caution still more unwise.” 

“ The moment he warned me against the villa, I fell in 
love with it. I shall discover a romance there.” 

“ I, too, would warn you against it ” 

“ You are but whetting my curiosity,” she interrupted 
playfully. 

“ Seriously, though. Master Lamont, in his letter, says 
that the house has not been inhabited for nearly a gener- 
ation ” 

“ There must be ghosts there,” she said, again inter- 
rupting him. “ It will be delightful.” 

“ And Master Lamont’s remark,” continued the Ad- 
vocate, “ that there have been comedies and tragedies 
enacted within its walls is not a recommendation.” 

“ I have heard you say, Edward, that they are enacted 
within the walls of the commonest houses.” 

“ But this particular house has been for so long a time 


THE ADVOCATE’S WIFE 


11 


deserted ! I am in ignorance of the stories attached to it ; 
that they are in some sense unpleasant is proved by Ai- 
mer’s avoidance of the place. What occurs to me is 
that, were it entirely desirable, Aimer would not have 
made it a point to shun it.” 

“ Christian Aimer is different from other men ; that is 
your own opinion of him.” 

“ True; he is a man dominated by sentiment; yet there 
appears to be something deeper than mere sentiment in 
his consistent avoidance of the singularly named House of 
White Shadows.” 

“ According to Master Lamont’s letter he has been to 
some trouble to make it agreeable to us. Indeed, Edward, 
you cannot argue me out of having my own way.” 

“ If the house is gloomy, Adelaide ” 

“ I will brighten it. Can I not ? ” she asked in a tone 
so winning that it brought a light into his grave face. 

“You can, for me, Adelaide,” he replied; “but I am 
not thinking of myself. I would not willingly sadden a 
heart as joyous as yours. You must promise, if you are 
not happy there, to seek with me a more cheerful retreat.” 

“ You can dismiss your fears, Edward. I shall be 
happy there. All last night I was dreaming of white 
shadows. Did they sadden me? No. I woke up this 
morning in delightful spirits. Is that an answer to your 
forebodings ? ” 

“ When did you not contrive to have your own way ? 
I have some banking business to do in Geneva, and I must 
leave you for an hour.” She nodded and smiled at him. 
Before he reached the door he turned and said : “ Are 
you still resolved to send your maid away? She knows 
your wants so well, and you are so accustomed to her, 
that her absence might put you to inconvenience. Had 
you not better keep her with you till you see whether you 
are likely to be suited at Aimer’s house ? ” 

“ Edward,” she said gaily, “ have I not told you a 
hundred times, and have you not found out for yourself a 
hundred and a hundred times again, that your wife is a 
very wilful woman ? I shall love to be inconvenienced ; 
it will set my wits to work. But indeed I happen to know 
that there is a pretty girl in the villa, the old house- 


12 


THE ADVOCATE’S WIFE 

keeper’s granddaughter, who was bom to do everything 
I wish done in just the way I wish it done.” 

“ Child of impulse and fancy,” he said, kissing her hand, 
and then her lips, in response to a pouting invitation, “ it 
is well for you that you have a husband as serious as 
myself to keep guard and watch over you. What is the 
thought that has suddenly entered your head ? ” 

“ Can you read a woman’s thoughts ? ” she asked in her 
lightest manner. 

“ I can judge by signs. What was your thought, 
Adelaide?” 

“ A foolish thought. To keep guard and watch over me, 
you said. The things are so different. The first is a 
proof of love, the second of suspicion.” 

“ A logician, too,” he said with a pleased smile ; “ the 
air here agrees with you.” So saying he left her, and he 
moment he was beyond the reach of her personal influence 
his native manner asserted itself, and his features assumed 
their usual grave expression. As he was descending the 
stairs of the hotel he was accosted by a woman, the maid 
he had advised his wife to keep. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” she said ; “ but may I ask why 
I am discharged ? ” 

“ Certainly not of me,” he replied stiffly ; “ you are my 
wife’s servant. She has her reasons.” 

“ She has not made me acquainted with them,” said the 
woman discontentedly. “Will you?” 

He saw that she was in an ill-temper, and although he 
was not a man to tolerate insolence, he was attentive to 
trifles. 

“ I do not interfere with my wife’s domestics. She 
engages whom she pleases, and discharges whom she 
pleases.” 

“ But to do right, sir, that is everyone’s affair. I am 
discharged suddenly, without notice, and without having 
committed a fault. Until this morning I am perfection; 
no one can dress my lady like me, no one can arrange her 
hair so admirably. That is what she says to me con- 
tinually. Why, then, am I discharged? I ask my lady 
why, and she says, for her convenience.” 

“ She has paid you, has she not ? ” 


JACOB HARTRICH 13 

“ Oh yes, and has given me money to return home. 
But it is not that. It is that it hurts me to be suddenly 
discharged. It is to my injury when I seek another situ- 
ation. I shall be asked why I left my last. To speak the 
truth, I must say that I did not leave, that I was dis- 
charged. I shall be asked why, and I shall not be able 
to say.” 

“Has she not given you a character?” 

“ Yes ; it is not that I complain of ; it is being suddenly 
discharged.” 

“ I cannot interfere, mistress. You have no reasonable 
cause for complaint. You have a character, and you are 
well paid ; that should content you.” 

He turned from her, and she sent her parting words 
after him : 

“ My lady has her reasons ! I hope they will be found 
to be good ones, and that you will find them so. Do you 
hear ? — that you will find them so ! ” 

He paid no further heed to her, and entering his car- 
riage drove to the Rue de la Corraterie, to the business 
house of Jacob Hartrich, and was at once admitted to 
the bankers private room. 


CHAPTER IV 

JACOB HARTRICH, THE BANKER, GIVES HIS REASONS FOR 
BELIEVING GAUTRAN THE WOODMAN GUILTY OF THE 
MURDER OF MADELINE 

J ACOB HARTRICH, by birth a Jew, had reached 
his sixtieth year, and was as hale and strong as a 
man of forty. His face was bland and full-fleshed, 
his eyes bright and, at times, joyous, his voice mellow, his 
hands fat and finely-shaped, and given to a caressing pet- 
ting of each other, denoting satisfaction with themselves 
and the world in general. His manners were easy and 
self-possessed — a characteristic of his race. He was a 
gentleman and a man of education. 

He gazed at the Advocate with admiration ; he had an 
intense respect for men who had achieved fame by force of 
intellect. 


14 JACOB HARTRICH 

“ Mr. Aimer,” he said, “ prepared me for your arrival, 
and is anxious that I should forward your views in every 
possible way. I shall be happy to do so, and, if it is in 
my power, to contribute to the pleasure of your visit.” 

“ I thank you,” said the Advocate, with a courteous in- 
clination of his head. “ When did you last see Mr. 
Aimer?” 

“ He called upon me this day three weeks — for a few 
minutes only, and only concerning your business.” 

“ He is always thoughtful and considerate. I suppose 
he was on his road to Paris when he called upon you.” 

“ No; he had no intention of going to Paris. I believe 
he had been for some time in the neighbourhood of 
Geneva before he favoured me with a visit. He is still 
here.” 

“ Here ! ” exclaimed the Advocate, in a tone of pleas- 
ure and surprise. 

“ At least in Switzerland.” 

“ In what part ? ” 

“ I cannot inform you, but from the remarks he let fall, 
I should say in the mountains, where tourists are not 
likely to penetrate.” He paused a moment before he con- 
tinued : “ Mr. Aimer spoke of you, in terms it was pleas- 
ant to hear, as his closest, dearest friend.” 

“ We are friends in the truest sense of the word.” 

“ Then I may speak freely to you. During the time he 
was with me I was impressed by an unusual strangeness 
in him. He was restless and ill at ease; his manner de- 
noted that he was either dissatisfied with himself or was 
under some evil influence. I expressed my surprise to 
him that he had been for some time in this neighbourhood 
without calling upon me, but he did not offer any ex- 
planation of his neglect. He told me, however, that he 
was tired of the light, the gaiety, and the bustle of cities, 
and that it was his intention to seek some solitude to en- 
deavour to rid himself of a terror which had taken pos- 
session of him. No sooner had he made this strange dec- 
laration than he strove, in hurried words, to make light 
of it, evidently anxious that it should leave no impression 
upon my mind. I need scarcely say he did not succeed. 
I have frequently thought of that declaration and of Chris- 
tian Almar in connection with it.” 


JACOB HARTRICH 15 

The Advocate smiled and shook his head. 

“ Mr. Aimer is given to fantastic expression. If you 
knew him as well as I do you would be aware that he is 
prone to magnify trifles, and likely to raise ghosts of the 
conscience for the mere pleasure of laying them. His 
nature is of that order which suffers keenly, but I am not 
disposed on that account to pity him. There are men who 
would be most unhappy unless they suffered.” 

“ My dear sir,” said Jacob Hartrich, “ I have known 
Christian Aimer since he was a child. I knew his father, 
a gentleman of great attainments, and his mother, a 
refined and exquisitely beautiful woman. His child-life 
probably made a sad impression upon him, but he has 
mixed with the world, and there is a bridge of twenty 
years between then and now. A great change has taken 
place in him, and not for the better. There is certainly 
something on his mind.” 

“ There is something on most men’s minds. I have 
remarked no change in Mr. Aimer to cause me uneasi- 
ness. He is the same high-minded gentleman I have ever 
known him to be. He is exquisitely sensitive, responsive 
to the lightest touch; those who are imbued with such 
qualities suffer keenly and enjoy keenly.” 

“ The thought occurred, to me that he might have sus- 
tained a monetary loss, but I dismissed it.” 

“ A monetary loss would rather exalt than depress him. 
He is rich — it would have been a great happiness for him 
if he had been poor. What are termed misfortunes are 
sometimes real blessings ; many fine natures are made to 
halt on their way by worldly prosperity. Had Christian 
Aimer been born in the lower classes he would have found 
a worthy occupation; he would have made a name for 
himself, and in all probability would have won a wife — 
who would have idolised him. He is a man whom a 
woman might worship.” 

“You have given me a clue,” said Jacob Hartrich; 
“ he has met with a disappointment in love.” 

“ I think not ; had he met with such a disappointment I 
should most surely have heard of it from his own lips.” 

Interesting as this conversation was to both the speakers 
it had now come to a natural break, and Jacob Hartrich, 


16 JACOB HARTRICH 

diverging from it, inquired whether the Advocate’s visit 
was likely to be a long one. 

“ I have pledged myself,” said the Advocate somewhat 
wearily, “ to remain here for at least three months.” 

“ Rest is a necessary medicine.” The Advocate nodded 
absently. “ Pray excuse me while I attend to your 
affairs. Here are the local and other papers.” 

He left the room, and returning soon afterwards found 
the Advocate engaged in the perusal of a newspaper in 
which he appeared to be deeply interested. 

“ Your business,” said Jacob Hartrich, “ will occupy 
about twenty minutes. There are some trifling formali- 
ties to be gone through with respect to signatures and 
stamps. If you are pressed for time I will send to you at 
your hotel.” 

“ With your permission I will wait,” said the Advocate, 
laying aside the paper with a thoughtful air. 

Jacob Hartrich glanced at the paper, and saw the head- 
ing of the column which the Advocate had perused, 
“ The Murder of Madeline the Flower-girl.” 

“ You have been reading the particulars of this shock- 
ing deed.” 

“ I have read what is there written.” 

“ But you are familiar with the particulars ; everybody 
has read them.” 

“ I am the exception, then. I have seen very few news- 
papers lately.” 

“ It was a foul and wicked murder.” 

“ It appears so, from this bare recital.” 

“ The foulest and most horrible within my remem- 
brance. Ah! where will not the passions of men lead 
them ? ” 

“ A wide contemplation. Were men to measure the 
consequences of their acts before they committed them, 
certain channels of human events which are now exceed- 
ingly wide and turbulent would become narrow and peace- 
ful. It was a girl who was murdered ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Young? ” 

“ Barely seventeen.” 

“ Pretty?” 


JACOB HARTRICH 17 

“ Very pretty.” 

“ Had she no father to protect her ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor mother?” 

“ No — as far as is known.” 

“ A flower-girl, I gather from the account.” 

“ Yes. I have occasionally bought a posy of her — poor 
child!” 

“ Did she trade alone ? ” 

“ She had a companion, an elderly woman, who, unhap- 
pily, left her a few days before the murder.” 

“ Deserted her? ” 

“ No; it was an amicable parting, intended to last but a 
short time, I believe. It is not known what called her 
away.” 

“ This young flower-girl — was she virtuous ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly, in my belief. She was most modest and 
child-like.” 

“ But susceptible to flattery. You hesitate. Why? Do 
you not judge human passions by human standards? She 
was young, pretty, in humble circumstances; her very 
opposite would be susceptible to flattery ; therefore, 
she.” 

“ Why, yes, of course ; I hesitated because it would 
pain me to say anything concerning her which might be 
construed into a reproach.” 

“ In such matters there is but one goal to steer for — the 
truth. I perceive that a man, Gautran, is in prison, 
charged with the murder.” 

“A man?” exclaimed Jacob Hartrich, with indignant 
warmth. “ A monster, rather ! Some refined punish- 
ment should be devised to punish him for his crime.” 

“ His crime ! I have, then, been reading an old paper.” 
The Advocate referred to the date. “ No — it is this 
morning’s.” 

“ I see your point, but the proofs of the monster’s guilt 
are irrefragable.” 

“ What proofs ? The statements of newspaper re- 
porters — the idle and mischievous tattle of persons who 
cannot be put into the witness-box ? ” 

“ It is well that you express yourself to me privately on 


18 JACOB HARTRICH 

this matter. In public it would not be credited that you 
were in earnest.” 

“ Then the facts are lost sight of that the man has to be 
tried, that his guilt or innocence has yet to be established.” 

“ The law cannot destroy facts.” 

“ The law establishes facts, which are often in danger of 
being perverted by man’s sympathies and prejudices. 
Are you acquainted with this Gautran ? ” 

“ I have no knowledge of him except from report.” 

“ And having no knowledge of him, except from report, 
you form an opinion upon hearsay, and condemn him 
offhand. It is justice itself, therefore, that is on its trial, 
not a man accused of a frightful deed. He is already 
judged. It is stated in the newspaper that the man’s ap- 
pearance is repulsive.” 

“ He is hideous.” 

“ Then you have seen him.” 

“ No.” 

“ Calmly consider what value can be placed upon your 
judgment under the circumstances. You say the girl was 
pretty. Her engaging manners have tempted you to buy 
posies of her, not always when you needed them. In mak- 
ing this statement of a fact which, trivial as it appears to 
be, is of importance, I judge a human action by a human 
standard. Thus, beauty on one side, and a forbidding 
countenance on the other, may be the means of contrib- 
uting — nay, of leading — to a direct miscarriage of justice. 
This should be prevented ; justice must have a clear course, 
which must not be blocked and choked up by passion and 
prejudice. The opinion you express of Gautran’s guilt 
may be entertained by others to whom he is also a 
stranger.” 

“ My opinion is universal.” 

“ The man, therefore, is universally condemned before 
he is called upon to answer the charge brought against 
him. Amidst this storm, in the wild fury of which reason 
has lost its proper functions, where shall a jury be found 
to calmly weigh the evidence on either side, and to judge, 
with ordinary fairness, a miserable wretch accused of a 
foul crime ? ” 

“ Gautran is a vagabond/’ said Jacob Hartrich feebly, 


JACOB HARTRICH 19 

feeling as though the ground were giving way under his 
feet, “ of the lowest type.” 

“ He is poor.” 

“ Necessarily.” 

“ And cannot afford to pay for independent legal 
aid.” 

“It is fortunate. He will meet with his deserts more 
surely and swiftly.” 

“ You can doubtless call to mind instances of innocent 
persons being accused of crimes they did not commit, and 
being made to suffer.” 

“ There is no fear in the case of Gautran.” 

“ Let us hope not,” said the Advocate, whose voice 
during the conversation had been perfectly passionless, 
“ and in the meantime, do not lose sight of this principle. 
Were Gautran the meanest creature that breathes, were 
he the most repulsive being on earth, he is an innocent man 
until he is declared guilty by the law. Equally so were 
he a man gifted with exceeding beauty of person, and 
bearing an honoured name. And of those two extremes, 
supposing both were found guilty of equal crimes, it is 
worthy of consideration, whether he who walks the gut- 
ters be not better entitled to a merciful sentence than he 
who lives on the heights.” 

At this moment a clerk brought some papers into the 
room. Jacob Hartrich looked over them, and handed 
them, with a roll of notes, to the Advocate, who rose and 
prepared to go. 

“ Have you a permanent address ? ” asked the banker. 

“ We take up our quarters at once,” replied the Ad- 
vocate, “ at the House of White Shadows.” 

Jacob Hartrich gazed at him in consternation. “ Chris- 
tian Aimer’s villa ! He made no mention of it to me.” 

“ It was an arrangement entered into some time since. 
I have a letter from Master Pierre Lamont informing me 
that the villa is ready for us.” 

“ It has been uninhabited for years, except by servants 
who have been kept there to preserve it from falling into 
decay. There are strange stories connected with that 
house.” 

“ I have heard as much, but have not inquired into them. 


FRITZ THE FOOL 


20 

The probability is that they arise from credulity or igno- 
rance, the foundation of all superstition.” 

With that remark the Advocate took his leave. 


CHAPTER V 

FRITZ THE FOOL 

IS the little wooden clock in the parlour of the inn 
ZA of The Seven Liars struck the hour of five, Fritz 
X X. the Fool ran through the open door, from which 
an array of bottles and glasses could be seen, and cried : 

“ They are coming — they are coming — the great Ad- 
vocate and his lady — and will arrive before the cook can 
toss me up an omelette ! ” 

And having thus delivered himself, Fritz ran out of the 
inn to the House of White Shadows, and swinging open 
the gates, cried still more loudly : 

“ Mother Denise ! Dionetta, my pearl of pearls ! 
Haste — haste ! They are on the road, and will be here a 
lifetime before old Martin can straighten his crooked 
back ! ” 

Within five minutes of this summons, there stood at 
the door of the inn of The Seven Liars, the customers who 
had been tippling therein, the host and hostess and their 
three children ; and ten yards off, at the gates of the villa, 
Mother Denise, her pretty granddaughter, Dionetta, and 
old Martin, whose breathing came short and quick at the 
haste he had made to be in time to welcome the Advocate 
and his lady. The refrain of the breaking-up song sung 
in the little village school was dying away, and the chil- 
dren trooped out, and waited to witness the arrival. The 
schoolmaster was also there, with a look of relief on his 
face, and stood with his hand on the head of his favourite 
pupil. The news had spread quickly, and when the car- 
riage made its appearance at the end of the lane, which 
shelved downward to the House of White Shadows, a 
number of villagers had assembled, curious to see the 
great lord and lady who intended to reside in the haunted 
house. 


FRITZ THE FOOL 21 

As the carriage drove up at the gates, the courier 
j umped down from his seat next to the driver, and opened 
the carriage door. The villagers pressed forward, and 
gazed in admiration at the beautiful lady, and in awe at 
the stern-faced gentleman who had selected the House 
of White Shadows for a holiday residence. There were 
those among them who, poor as they were, would not have 
undertaken to sleep in any one of the rooms in the villa for 
the value of all the watches in Geneva. There were, how- 
ever, three persons in the small concourse of people who 
had no fears of the house. These were Mother Denise, 
the old housekeeper, her husband Martin, and Fritz the 
Fool. 

Mother Denise, the oldest servant of the house, had been 
born there, and was ghost and shadow proof ; so was her 
husband, now in his eighty-fifth year, whose body was 
like a bent bow stretched for the flight of the arrow, his 
soul. Not for a single night in sixty-eight years had 
Mother Denise slept outside the walls of the House of 
White Shadows ; nothing did she know of the great world 
beyond, and nothing did she care ; a staunch, faithful ser- 
vant of the Aimer family, conversant with its secret his- 
tory, her duty was sufficient for her, and she had no desire 
to travel beyond the space which encompassed it. For 
forty-three years her husband had kept her company, and 
to neither, as they had frequently declared, had a super- 
natural visitant ever appeared. They had no belief what- 
ever in the ghostly gossip. 

Fool Fritz, on the contrary, averred that there was no 
mistake about the spiritual visitants ; they appeared to him 
frequently, but he had no fear of them; indeed, he ap- 
peared to rather enjoy them. “ They may come, and wel- 
come, ’’ he said. “ They don’t strike, they don’t bite, they 
don’t burn. They reveal secrets which you would like 
nobody to find out. If it‘had not been for them, how 
should I have known about Karl and Mina kissing and 
courting at the back of the schoolhouse when everybody 
was asleep, or about Dame Walther and her sly bottle, or 
about Wolf Constans coming home at three in the morn- 
ing with a dead lamb on his back — ah, and about many 
things you try and keep to yourselves? I don’t mind 


22 FRITZ THE FOOL 

the shadows, not I.” There was little in the village that 
Fritz did not know; all the scandal, all the love-making, 
all the family quarrels, all the secret doings — it was hard 
to keep anything from him ; and the mystery was how he 
came to the knowledge of these matters. “ He is in affinity 
with the spirits,” said the village schoolmaster ; “ he is 
himself a ghost, with a fleshly embodiment. That is why 
the fool is not afraid.” Truly Fritz the Fool was ghost- 
like in appearance, for his skin was singularly white, and 
his head was covered with shaggy white hair which hung 
low down upon his shoulders. From a distance he looked 
like an old man, but he had not reached his thirtieth year, 
and so clear were his eyes and complexion that, on a closer 
observance, he might have passed for a lad of half the 
years he bore. A shrewd knave, despite his title of 
fool. 

Pretty Dionetta did not share his defiance of ghostly 
visitors. The House of White Shadows was her home, 
and many a night had she awoke in terror and listened 
with a beating heart to soft footsteps in the passage out- 
side her room, and buried her head in the sheets to shut 
out the light of the moon which shone in at her win- 
dow. Fritz alone sympathised with her. “ Two hours 
before midnight,” he would say to her ; “ then it was you 
heard them creeping past your door. You were afraid, 
of course — when one is all alone; I can prescribe a rem- 
edy for that — not yet, Dionetta, by-and-by. Till then, 
keep all men at a distance ; avoid them ; there is danger in 
them. If they look at you, frown, and lower your eyes. 
And to-night, when you go to bed, lock your door tight, 
and listen. If the spirits come again, I will charm them 
away; shortly after you hear their footsteps, I will sing 
a stave outside to trick them from your door. Then sleep 
in peace, and rely on Fritz the Fool.” 

Very timid and fearful of the supernatural was this 
country beauty, whom all the louts in the neighbourhood 
wanted to marry, and she alone, of those who lived in the 
House of White Shadows, welcomed the Advocate and his 
wife with genuine delight. Fool Fritz thought of secretly- 
enjoyed pleasures which might now be disturbed, Martin 
was too old not to dislike change, and Mother Denise was 


FRITZ THE FOOL 23 

by no means prepared to rejoice at the arrival of stran- 
gers; she would have been better pleased had they never 
shown their faces at the gates. 

The Advocate and his wife stood looking around them, 
he with observant eyes and in silence, she with undis- 
guised pleasure and admiration. She began to speak 
the moment she alighted. 

“ Charming ! beautiful ! I am positively in love with it. 
This morning it was but a fancy picture, now it is real. 
Could anything be more perfect ? So peaceful, and quaint, 
and sweet ! Look at those children peeping from behind 
their mother’s gown — she can be no other -than their 
mother — dirty, but how picturesque! — and the woman 
herself, how original ! It is worth while being a woman 
like that, to stand as she does, with her children clinging 
to her. Why does Mr. Aimer not like to live here? It is 
inexplicable, quite inexplicable. I could be happy here 
for ever — yes, for ever ! Do you catch the perfume of the 
limes ? It is delicious — delicious ! It comes from the 
grounds ; there must be a lime-tree walk there. And you,” 
she said to the pretty girl at the gates, “ you are Dionetta.” 

“ Yes, my lady,” said Dionetta, and marvelled how her 
name could have become known to the beautiful woman, 
whose face was more lovely than the face of the Madonna 
over the altar of the tiny chapel in which she daily prayed. 
It was not difficult to divine her thought, for Dionetta was 
Nature’s child. 

“ You wonder who told me your name,” said the Ad- 
vocate’s wife, smiling, and patting the girl’s cheek with 
her gloved hand. 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ It was a little bird, Dionetta.” 

“ A little bird, my lady ! ” exclaimed Dionetta, her 
wonderment and admiration growing fast into worship. 
The lady’s graceful figure, her pink and white face, her 
pearly teeth, her lovely laughing mouth, her eyes, blue 
as the most beautiful summer’s cloud — Dionetta had 
never seen the like before. 

“ You,” said the Advocate’s wife, turning to the grand- 
mother, “ are Mother Denise.” 

“ Yes, my lady,” said the old woman ; “ this is my hus- 


24 FRITZ THE FOOL 

band, Martin. Come forward, Martin, come forward. 
He is not as young as he was, my lady.” 

“ I know, I know ; my little bird was very communica- 
tive. You are Fritz.” 

“ The Fool,” said the white-haired young man, ap- 
proaching closer to the lady, and consequently closer to 
Dionetta, “ Fritz the Fool. But that needn’t tell against 
me, unless you please. I can be useful, if I care to be, and 
faithful, too, if I care to be.” 

“ It depends upon yourself, then,” said the lady, ac- 
cepting the independent speech in good part, “ not upon 
others.” 

“ Mainly upon myself ; but I have springs that can be 
set in motion, if one can only find out how to play upon 
them. I was told you were coming.” 

“ Indeed ! ” with an air of pleasant surprise. “ By 
whom, and when ? ” 

“By whom? The white shadows. When? In my 
dreams.” 

“ The white shadows ! They exist then ! Edward, do 
you hear ? ” 

“ It is not so, my lady,” interposed Mother Denise, in 
ill-humour at the turn the conversation was taking ; “ the 
shadows do not exist, despite what people say. Fritz is 
over-fond of fooling.” 

“ It is my trade,” retorted Fritz. “ I know what I 
know, grandmother.” 

“ Is Fritz your grandson, then? ” asked the Advocate’s 
wife, of Mother Denise. 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” exclaimed Mother Denise. 

“ What is not,” remarked Fritz sententiously, “ may be. 
Bear that in mind, grandmother; I may remind you of 
it one day.” 

The Advocate, upon whom not a word that had passed 
had been lost, fixed his eyes upon Fritz, and said : 

“ A delusion can be turned to profit. You make use of 
these shadows.” 

“ The saints forbid ! They would burn me in brimstone. 
Yet,” with a look both sly and vacant, “ it would be a pity 
to waste them.” 

“ You like to be called a fool. It pleases you.” 


FRITZ THE FOOL 


25 


“ Why not?” 

“ Why, rather ? ” 

“ I might answer in your own words, that it can be 
turned to profit. But I am too great a fool to see in what 
way.” 

“ You answer wisely. Why do you close your eyes? ” 

“ I can see in the dark what I choose to see. When my 
eyes are open, I am their slave. When they are closed, 
they are mine — unless I dream.” 

The Advocate gazed for a moment or two in silence 
upon the white face with its closed eyes raised to his, and 
then said to his wife : 

“ Come, Adelaide, we will look at the house.” 

They passed into the grounds, accompanied by Mother 
Denise, Martin, and Dionetta. Fritz remained outside the 
gate, with his eyes still closed, and a smile upon his lips. 

“ Fritz,” said the host of the inn of The Seven Liars, 
“ do you know anything of the great man ? ” 

Fritz rubbed his brows softly and opened his eyes, 

“ Take the advice of a fool, Peter Schelt. Speak low 
when you speak of him.” 

“ You think he can hear us. Why, he is a hundred 
yards off by this time ! ” 

Fritz pointed with a waving finger to the air above him. 

“ There are magnetic lines, neighbours, connecting 
him with everything he once sets eyes on. He can see 
without seeing, and hear without hearing.” 

“ You speak in riddles, Fritz.” 

“ Put it down to your own dulness, Peter Schelt, that 
you cannot understand me. Master Lamont, now — what 
would you say about him ? That he lacks brains ? ” 

“ A long way from it. Master Lamont is the cleverest 
man in the valley.” 

“ Not now,” said Fritz, pointing with his thumb over 
his shoulder in the direction taken by the Advocate ; “ his 
master has come. Master Lamont is a great lawyer, but 
we have now a greater, one who is a more skilful cobbler 
with his tongue than Hans here is with his awl ; he can 
so patch an old boot as to make it better than a new one, 
and look as close as you may, you will not see the seams. 
Listen, Master Schelt. When I stood there with my eyes 


26 FRITZ THE FOOL 

shut I had a dream of a stranger who was found mur- 
dered in your house. An awful dream, Peter. Gather 
round, neighbours, gather round. There lay the stranger 
dead on his bed, and over him stood you, Peter Schelt, 
with a bloody knife in your hand. People say you mur- 
dered him for his money, and it really seemed so, for a 
purse stuffed with gold and notes was found in your 
possession ; you had the stranger’s silver watch, too. 
Suspicious, was it not? It was looking so black against 
you that you begged the great man who has come among 
us to plead for you at your trial. You were safe enough, 
then. He told a rare tale. Forty years ago the stranger 
robbed your father ; suddenly he was struck with remorse, 
and seeking you out, gave you back the money, and his 
silver watch in the bargain. He proved to everybody’s 
satisfaction that, though you committed the murder, it 
was impossible you could be guilty. Don’t be alarmed, 
Madame Schelt, it was only a dream.” 

“ But are you sure I did it ? ” asked Peter Schelt, in no 
way disturbed by the bad light in which he was placed by 
Fritz’s fancies. 

“ What matters ? The great man got you off, and that 
is all you cared for. Look here, neighbours ; if any of 
you have black goats that you wish changed into white, 
go to him; he can do it for you. Or an old hen that 
cackles and won’t lay, go to him ; she will cackle less, and 
lay you six eggs a day. He is, of all, the greatest.” 

“ Ah,” said a neighbour, “ and what do you know of his 
lady wife ? ” 

“ What all of you should know, but cannot see, though 
it stares you in the face.” 

“ Let us have it, Fritz.” 

“ She is too fair. Christine,” to a stout young woman 
close to him, “ give thanks to the Virgin to-night that you 
were sent into the world with a cast in your eye, and that 
your legs grow thicker and crookeder every day. You will 
never drive a man out of his senses with your beauty.” 

Fritz was compelled to beat a swift retreat, for Chris- 
tine’s arms were as thick as her legs, and they were raised 
to smite. Up the lane flew the fool, and Christine after 
him, amid the laughter of the villagers. 


MISTRESS AND MAID 


27 


CHAPTER VI 

MISTRESS AND MAID 

I N the meantime the Advocate and his wife strolled 
through the grounds. Although it was evident that 
much labour had been bestowed upon them, there 
were signs of decay here and there which showed the 
need of a master mind ; but as these traces were only to 
be met with at some distance from the villa itself, it was 
clear that they would not interfere with the comfort of 
the new arrivals. The house lay low, and the immediate 
grounds surrounding it were in good condition. There 
were orchards stocked with fruit-trees, and gardens 
bright with flowers. At a short distance from the house 
was an old chalet which had been built with great taste ; 
it was newly painted, and much care had been bestowed 
upon a covered pathway which led to it from a side en- 
trance to the House of White Shadows. The principal 
room in this chalet was a large studio, the walls of which 
were black. On the left wall — in letters which once were 
white, but which had grown yellow with age — was in- 
scribed the legend, “ The Grave of Honour.” 

“ How singular ! ” exclaimed the Advocate’s wife. 
“ ‘ The Grave of Honour ! ’ What can be the meaning 
of it ? ” 

But Mother Denise did not volunteer an explanation. 
Near the end of the studio was an alcove, the space 
beyond being screened by a dead crimson curtain. Hold- 
ing back the curtain, a large number of pictures were 
seen piled against the walls. 

“ Family pictures ? ” asked the Advocate’s wife, of 
Mother Denise. 

“ No, my lady,” was the reply ; “ they were painted 
by an artist, who resided and worked here for a year or 
so in the lifetime of the old master.” 

By the desire of the lady the housekeeper brought a 
few of the pictures into the light. One represented a 
pleasure party of ladies and gentlemen dallying in sum- 
mer woods; another, a lady lying in a hammock and 


28 


MISTRESS AND MAID 


reaching out her arm to pluck some roses; two were 
companion pictures, the first subject being two persons 
who might have been lovers, standing among strewn 
flowers in the sunshine — the second subject showing the 
same figures in a different aspect ; a cold grey sea divided 
them, on the near shore of which the man stood in 
an attitude of despair gazing across the waters to the 
opposite shore, on which stood the woman with a pale, 
grief-stricken face. 

“ The sentiment is strained,” observed the Advocate, 
“ but the artist had talent.” 

“ A story could be woven out of them,” said his wife ; 
“ I feel as if they were connected with the house.” 

Upon leaving the chalet they continued their tour 
through the grounds. Already the Advocate felt the bene- 
ficial effects of a healthy change. His eyes were clearer, 
his back straighter, he moved with a brisker step. Mother 
Denise walked in front, pointing out this and that, Mar- 
tin hobbled behind, and Dionetta, encouraged thereto, 
walked by her new mistress’s side. 

“ Dionetta,” said the Advocate’s wife, “ do you know 
that you have the prettiest name in the world ? ” 

“ Have I, my lady ? I have never thought of it, but it 
is, if you say so.” 

“ But perhaps,” said the Advocate’s wife, with a glance 
at the girl’s bright face, “ a man would not think of your 
name when he looked at you.” 

“ I am sure I cannot say, my lady ; he would not think 
of me at all.” 

“ You little simpleton ! I wish I had such a name ; they 
ought to wait till we grow up, so that we might choose 
our own names. I should not have chosen Adelaide for 
myself.” 

“ Is that your name, my lady ? ” 

“ Yes — they could not have given me an uglier.” 

“ Nay,” said Dionetta, raising her eyes in mute appeal 
for forgiveness for the contradiction, “ it is very sweet.” 

“ Repeat it, then. Adelaide.” 

“ May I, my lady ? ” 

“ Of course you may, if I wish you to. Let me hear 
you speak it.” 


MISTRESS AND MAID 29 

“ Adelaide ! Adelaide ! ” murmured Dionetta softly. 
The permission was as precious as the gift of a silver 
chain would have been. “ My lady, it is pretty.” 

“ Shall we change?” asked the Advocate’s wife gaily. 

“ Can we ? ” inquired Dionetta in a solemn tone. “ I 
would not mind if you wish it, and if it is right. I will 
ask the priest.” 

“ No, do not trouble. Would you really like to 
change ? ” 

“ It would be so strange — and it might be a sin ! If 
we cannot, it is of no use thinking of it.” 

“ There is no sin in thinking of things ; if there were, 
the world would be full of sin, and I — dear me, how much 
I should have to answer for! I should not like every- 
one to know my thoughts. What a quiet life you must 
live here, Dionetta ! ” 

“ Yes, my lady, it is quiet.” 

“ Would you not prefer to live in a city?” 

“ I should be frightened, my lady. I have been only 
twice to Geneva, and there was no room' in the streets to 
move about. I was glad to get back.” 

“No room to move about, simplicity ! That is the de- 
light of it. There are theatres, and music, and light, and 
life. You would not be frightened if you were with 
me? ” 

“ Oh, no, my lady; that would be happiness.” 

“ Are you not happy here ?” 

“ Oh, yes, very happy.” 

“ But you wish for something? ” 

“ No, my lady ; I have everything I want.” 

“ Everything — positively everything ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ There is one thing you must want, Dionetta, if you 
have it not already.” 

“ May I know what it is ? ” 

“ Yes, child. Love.” 

Dionetta blushed crimson from forehead to throat, and 
the Advocate’s wife laughed, and tapped her cheek. 

“ You are very pretty, Dionetta ; it is right you should 
have a pretty name. Do you mean to tell me you have not 
3 , lover ? ” 


30 MISTRESS AND MAID 

“ I have been asked, my lady,” said the girl, in a tone 
so low that it could only just be heard. 

“ And you said ‘ yes ’ ? Little one, I have caught you.” 

“ My lady, I did not say ‘ yes.’ ” 

“ And the men were contented ? They must be dolts. 
Really and truly, you have not a lover?” 

“ What can I say, my lady ? ” murmured Dionetta, her 
head bent down. “ There are some who say they — love 
me.” 

“ But you do not love them ? ” 

“ No, my lady.” 

“ You would like to have one you could love? ” 

“ One day, my lady, if I am so fortunate.” 

“ I promise you,” said the Advocate’s wife with a 
blithe laugh, “ that one day you will be so fortunate. 
Women were made for love — and men, too, or where 
would be the use ? It is the only thing in life worth living 
for. Blushing again ! I would give my jewel-case to be 
able to blush like you.” 

“ I cannot help it, my lady. My face often grows red 
when I am quite alone.” 

“ And thinking of love,” added the Advocate’s wife ; 
“ for what else should make it red ? So you do think of 
things ! I can see, Dionetta, that you and I are going to 
be great friends.” 

“ You are very good, my lady, but I am. only a poor 
peasant. I will serve you as well as I can.” 

“ You knew, before I came, that you were to be my 
maid ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady. Master Lamont said it was likely. 
Grandmother did not seem to care that it should be so, 
but I wished for it, and now that she has seen you she 
must be glad for me to serve you.” 

“ Why should she be glad, Dionetta ? ” 

“ My lady, it could not be otherwise,” said Dionetta 
very earnestly ; “ you are so good and beautiful.” 

“ Flatterer ! Master Lamont — he is an old man ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ There are some old men who are very handsome.” 

“ He is not. He is small, and thin, and shrivelled up.” 

" Those are not the men for us, are they, little one ? ” 


MISTRESS AND MAID 31 

“ But he has a voice like honey. I have heard many 
say so.” 

“ That is something in his favour — or would be, if 
women were blind. So from this day you are my maid. 
You will be faithful, I am sure, and will keep my secrets. 
Mind that, Dionetta. You must keep my secrets.” 

“ Have you any ? ” said Dionetta, “ and shall you tell 
them to me ? ” 

“ Every woman in the world has secrets, and every 
woman in the world must have someone to whom she 
can whisper them. You will find that out for yourself in 
time. Yes, child, I have secrets — one, a very precious 
one. If ever you guess it without my telling you, keep 
it buried in your heart, and do not speak of it to a living 
soul.” 

“ I would not dare, my lady.” 

They walked a little apart from the others during this 
dialogue. The concluding words brought them to the 
steps of the House of White Shadows. 

“ Edward,” said the Advocate’s wife to him, as they 
entered the house, “ I have, found a treasure. My new 
maid is charming.” 

“ I am pleased to hear it. She has an ingenuous face, 
but you will be able to judge better when you know more 
of her.” 

“ You do not trust many persons, Edward.” 

“ Not many, Adelaide.” 

“ Me ? ” she asked archly. 

“ Implicitly.” 

“ And another, I think.” 

“ Certainly, one other.” • 

“ I should not be far out if I were to name Christian 
Aimer.” 

“ It is to him I refer.” 

“ I have sometimes wondered,” she said, with an artless 
look, “ why you should be so partial to him. He is so 
unlike you.” 

“ We are frequently drawn to our unlikes ; but Aimer 
and I have one quality in common with each other.” 

“What quality, Edward?” 

“ The quality of the dog — faithfulness. Aimer’s friend- 


32 


MISTRESS AND MAID 


ship is precious to me, and mine to him, because we are 
each to the other faithful.” 

“ The quality of the dog ! How odd that sounds ! 
Though when one thinks of it there is really something 
noble in it. And friendship — it is almost as if you placed 
it higher than love.” 

“ It is far higher. Love too frequently changes, as the 
seasons change. Friendship is, of the two, the more likely 
to endure, being less liable to storms. But even a faithful 
friendship is rare.” 

“ And faithful love much rarer, according to your ideas. 
Yet, Mr. Aimer, having this quality of the dog, would be 
certain, you believe, to be faithful both in love and friend- 
ship.” 

“ To the death.” 

“ You are thorough in your opinions, Edward.” 

“ I do not believe in half-heartedness, Adelaide.” 

The arrangements within the house were complete and 
admirable. For the Advocate’s wife, a boudoir and re- 
ception-rooms into which new fashions had been intro- 
duced with judgment so good as not to jar with the old 
furnishings which had adorned them for many genera- 
tions. For the Advocate a study, with a library which 
won from him cordial approval; a spacious and com- 
modious apartment, neither overloaded with furniture nor 
oppressive with bare spaces; with an outlook from one 
window to the snow regions of Mont Blanc, from another 
to the city of Geneva, which was now bathed in a soft, 
mellow light. This tender evidence of departing day was 
creeping slowly downwards into the valleys from mount 
and city, a moving picture of infinite beauty. 

They visited the study last ; Adelaide had been loud in 
her praises of the house and its arrangement, commending 
this and that, and declaring that everything was perfect. 
While she was examining the furniture in the study the 
Advocate turned to the principal writing-table, upon 
which lay a pile of newspapers. He took up the first of 
these, and instinctively searched for the subject which 
had not left his mind since his visit to the banker, Jacob 
Hartrich — the murder of Madeline the flower-girl. He 
was deep in the perusal of fresh details, confirmatory of 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 33 

Gautran’s guilt, when he was aroused by a stifled cry 
of alarm from Adelaide. With the newspaper still in his 
hand, he looked up and asked what had alarmed her. 
She laughed nervously, and pointed to an old sideboard 
upon which a number of hideous faces were carved. To 
some of the faces bodies were attached, and the whole of 
this ancient work of art was extravagant enough to have 
had for its inspiration the imaginings of a madman’s 
brain. 

“ I thought I saw them moving,” said Adelaide. 

The Advocate smiled, and said: 

“ It is the play of light over the figures that created 
the delusion ; they are harmless, Adelaide.” 

The glow of sunset shone through a painted window 
upon the faces, which to a nervous mind might have 
seemed to be animated with living colour. 

“ Look at that frightful head,” said Adelaide ; “ it is 
really stained with blood.” 

“ And now,” observed the Advocate, “ the blood-stain 
fades away, and in the darker light the expression grows 
sad and solemn.” 

“ I should be frightened of this room at night,” said 
Adelaide, with a slight shiver ; “ I should fancy those 
hideous beings were only waiting an opportunity to steal 
out upon me for an evil purpose.” 

A noise in the passage outside diverted their attention. 

“ Gently, Fritz, gently,” cried a voice, “ unless you 
wish to make holes in the sound part of me.” 

The Advocate moved to the door, and opened it. A 
strange sight came into view. 

CHAPTER VII 

A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT DREAMS OF LOVE 

AT the door stood Fritz the Fool, carrying in his 
Z\ arms what in the gathering dusk looked like a 
bundle. This bundle was human — a man who 
was but half a man. Embracing Fritz, with one arm 
tightly clutching the Fool’s neck, the figure commenced 
to speak the moment the door was opened. 


34 A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 

“ I only am to blame ; learning that you were in the 
study, I insisted upon being brought here immediately; 
carry me in gently-, Fool, and set me in that chair.” 

The chair indicated was close to the writing-table, by 
which the Advocate was standing. 

“ Fritz made me acquainted with your arrival,” con- 
tinued the intruder, “ and I hastened here without delay. 
When I tell you that I live two miles off, eight hundred 
feet above the level of this valley, you will realise the 
jolting I have had in my wheeled chair. Fritz, you can 
leave us; but be within call, as you must help to get me 
home again. Is there any need for me to introduce my- 
self ? ” he asked. 

“ Master Lamont,” said the Advocate. 

“ As much as is left of me ; but I manage to exist. I 
have proved that a man can live without legs. You re- 
ceived my letter ? ” 

“ Yes; and I thank you for your attention. My wife,” 
said the Advocate, introducing Adelaide. Attracted by 
the dulcet voice of Pierre Lamont, she had come out of 
the deeper shadows of the room. Dionetta had spoken 
truly; this thin, shrivelled wreck of mortality had a voice 
as sweet as honey. 

“ I cannot rise to pay my respects to you,” said Pierre 
Lamont, his lynx eyes resting with profound admiration 
upon the beautiful woman, “ but I beg you to believe that 
I am your devoted slave.” Adelaide bent her head grace- 
fully, and smiled upon the old lawyer. “ One of my great 
anxieties is to know whether I have arranged the villa to 
your satisfaction. Christian Aimer was most desirous 
that the place should be made pleasant and attractive, and 
I have endeavoured to carry out his instructions.” 

“ We owe you a debt of gratitude,” said Adelaide ; 
" everything has been charmingly done.” 

“ I am repaid for my labour,” said Pierre Lamont gal- 
lantly. “ You must be fatigued after your journey. Do 
not let me detain you. I shall remain with the Advocate 
but a very few minutes, and I trust you will allow me to 
make another and a longer visit.” 

“ We shall always be happy to see you,” said Adelaide, 
as she bowed and left the room. 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT ' 35 

“ You are fortunate, comrade,” said Pierre Lamont, 
“ both in love and war. Your lady is the most beautiful I 
have ever beheld. I am selfishly in hopes that you will 
make a long stay with us; it will put some life into this 
sleepy valley. Is Christian Aimer with you ? ” 

“ No; but I may induce him to come. It is to you,” 
said the Advocate, pointing to the pile of newspapers, 
“ that I am indebted for these.” 

“ I thought you would find something in them to in- 
terest you. I see you have one of the papers in your hand, 
and that you were reading it before I intruded upon you. 
May I look at it? Ah! you have caught up the scent. It 
was the murder of the flower-girl I meant.” 

“ Have you formed an opinion upon the case? ” 

“ Scarcely yet ; it is so surrounded with mystery. In 
my enforced retirement I amuse myself by taking up any 
important criminal case that occurs ; and trying it in my 
solitude, acting at once the parts of judge and counsel for 
the prosecution and defence., A poor substitute for the 
reality; but I make it serve — not to my satisfaction, I 
confess, although I may show ingenuity in some of my 
conclusions. But I miss the cream, which lies in the per- 
sonality of the persons concerned. This case of Gautran 
interests and perplexes me ; were I able to take an active 
part, it is not unlikely I should move in it. I envy you, 
brother ; I should feel proud if I could break a lance with 
you ; but we do not live in an age of miracles, so I must 
be content, perforce, with my hermit life. What I read 
does rfot always please me; points are missed — almost 
wilfully missed, as it seems to me — strong links allowed 
to fall, disused, false inferences drawn, and, in the end, 
a verdict and sentence which half make me believe that 
justice limps on crutches. ‘Fools, fools, fools!’ I cry; 

‘ if I were among you this should not be.’ But what can 
an old cripple do ? Grumble ? Yes ; and extract a morsel 
of satisfaction from his discontent — which tickles his 
vanity. That men’s deserts are not meted out to them 
troubles me more now than it used to do. The times are 
too lenient of folly and crime. I would have the old law 
revived. ‘ To the doer as he hath done ’ — thus saith the 
thrice ancient word— so runs the ‘ Agamemnon.’ If my 


36 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 


neighbour kill my ass, I would knock his on the head. 
And this Gautran, if he be guilty, deserves the death; if 
he be innocent, deserves to live and be set free. But to 
allow a poor wretch to be judged by public passions — 
Heaven send us a beneficent change ! ” 

The voice of the speaker was so sweet, and the argu- 
ments so palatable to the Advocate, and so much in ac- 
cordance with his own views, that he listened with 
pleasure to this outburst. He recognised in the cripple 
huddled up in the chair one whose pre-eminence in his 
craft had been worthily attained. 

“ I am pleased we have met,” he said, and the eyes of 
Pierre Lamont glistened. 

He soon brought his visit to a close, and while Fritz 
the Fool was being summoned, he said that in the morn- 
ing he would send the Advocate all the papers he could 
gather which might help to throw a light on the case of 
Gautran. 

“ You have spoken with Fritz, he tells me.” 

" I have ; he appears to me worth studying.” 

“ There is salt in the knave ; he has occasionally man- 
aged to overreach me. Fool as he is, he has a head with 
brains in it. Farewell.” 

Now, although the old lawyer, while he was with the 
Advocate, seemed to think of nothing but his more cele- 
brated legal brother, it was far different as he was car- 
ried in his wheeled chair to his home on the heights. He 
had his own servant to propel him; Fritz walked by his 
side. 

“ You were right, Fritz, you were right,” said Pierre 
Lamont, and he smacked his lips, and his eyes kindled 
with the fire of youth, “ she is a rare piece of flesh and 
blood — as fair as a lily, as ripe as a peach ready to drop 
from the wall. With passions of her own, Fritz ; her veins 
are warm. To live in the heart of such a woman would 
be to live a perpetual summer. What say you, Fritz? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That is a fool’s answer.” 

“ Then the fools are the real wise men, for there is 
wisdom in silence. But I say nothing because I 3m think- 
ing” 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 37 

“ A mouse in labour. Beware of bringing forth a 
mountain ; it will rend you to pieces.” 

Fritz softly hummed a tune as they climbed the hills. 
Only once did he speak till they arrived at Pierre La- 
mont’s house ; it was in reply to the old lawyer, who 
said : 

“ It is easier going up the hills than coming down.” 

“ That depends,” said Fritz, “ upon whether it is the 
mule or the man on his back.” 

Pierre Lamont laughed quietly; he had a full enjoy- 
ment of Fritz’s humour. 

“ I have been thinking,” said Fritz when the journey 
was completed 

“ Ah, ah ! ” interrupted Pierre Lamont ; “ now for the 
mountain.” 

“ — Upon the reason that made so fair a lady — young, 
and warm, and ripe — marry an icicle.” 

“ There is hidden fire, Fritz ; you may get it from a 
stone.” 

“ I forgot,” said Fritz, with a sly chuckle, “ that I was 
speaking to an old man.” 

“ Rogue ! ” cried Pierre Lamont, raising his stick. 

“ Never stretch out your hand,” said Fritz, darting 
away, “ for what you cannot reach.” 

“ Fritz, Fritz, come here! ” 

“ You will not strike? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I will trust you. There are lawyers I would 
not, though every word they uttered was framed in 
gold.” 

“ So, you have been thinking of the reason that made 
so fair a lady marry an icicle ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ The icicle is celebrated.” 

"That is of no account.” 

“ He is rich.” 

“ That is good.” 

“ He is much older than she. He may die, and leave 
her a young widow.” 

“ That is better.” 

“ Then she may marry again — a younger man.” 


38 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 


“ That is best. Master Lamont, you have a head.” 

“ And your own love-affair, Fritz, is that flourishing, 
eh? Have the pretty red lips kissed a ‘ Yes ’ yet? ” 

“ The pretty red lips have not been asked. I bide my 
time. My peach is not as ripe as the icicle’s. I’ll go and 
look after it, Master Lamont. It needs careful watching ; 
there are poachers about.” 

Fritz departed to look after his peach, and Pierre La- 
mont was carried into his study, where he sat until late 
in the night, surrounded by books and papers. 

The Advocate was also in his study until two hours 
past midnight, searching newspaper after newspaper for 
particulars and details of the murder of the unfortunate 
girl whose body had been found in the wildly rushing 
Rhone. And while he pondered and mused, and ofttimes 
paced the room with thoughtful face, his wife lay sleeping 
in her holiday home, with smiles on her lips, and joy in 
her heart, for she was dreaming of one far away. And 
her dream was of love. 

And Dionetta, the pretty maid, also slept, with her 
hands clasped at the back of her head ; and her lady was 
saying to her : “ Really and truly, Dionetta, you have not 
a lover? Women are made for love. It is the only thing 
in life worth living for.” And a blush, even in her sleep, 
stole over her fair face and bosom. For her dream was 
of love. 

And Pierre Lamont lived over again the days of his 
youth, and smirked and languished, and made fine 
speeches, and moved amidst a paradise of fair faces, all 
of which bore the likeness of one whom he had but just 
seen for the first time. And, old as he was, his dream 
was of love. 

And Fritz the Fool tossed in his bed, and muttered : 

“ Too fair ! too fair ! If I were rich she might tempt 
me to be false to one, and make me vow I would lay down 
my life for her. It is a good thing for me that I am a 
fool.” 

And Gautran in his prison cell writhed upon his hard 
bed in the midst of the darkness ; for by his side lay the 
phantom of the murdered girl, and his despair was deep 
and awful. 


A VISIT FROM PIERRE LAMONT 39 

And in the mountains, two hundred miles distant from 
the House of White Shadows, roamed Christian Aimer 
in the moonlight, struggling with all his mental might with 
a terror which possessed him. The spot he had flown to 
was ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, and his 
sleeping-room was in the hut of a peasant, mountain- 
born and mountain-reared, who lived a life of dull con- 
tentment with his goats, and wife, and children. Far 
away in the heights immense forests of fir-trees were 
grouped in dark, solemn masses. Not a branch stirred; 
a profound repose reigned within their depths, while the 
sleepless waterfalls in the lower heights, leaping, and 
creeping, and dashing over chasm and precipice, pro- 
claimed the eternal wakefulness of Nature. The solitary 
man gazed upon these majestic signs in awe and de- 
spair. 

“ There is no such thing as oblivion,’’ he muttered ; 
“ there is no such thing as forgetfulness. These solitudes, 
upon which no living creature but myself is to be seen, 
are full of accusing voices. My God ! to die and be blotted 
out for ever and ever were better than this agony! I 
strive and strive, and cannot rid myself of the sin. I 
will conquer it — I will — I will — I will ! ” 

But even as he spoke there gleamed upon him from a 
laughing cascade the vision of a face so beautiful as to 
force a groan from his lips. He turned from the vision, 
and it shone upon him with a tender wooing in every 
waterfall that met his sight. Trembling with the force 
of a passion he found it impossible to resist, he walked to 
his mountain home, and threw himself upon his couch. 
He was exhausted with sleepless nights, and in a short 
time he fell into a deep slumber. And a calm stole over 
his troubled soul, for his dreams were of love ! 


40 THE INTERVIEW IN THE RRISON 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 


A 


RISE, Gautran.” 

At this command Gautran rose slowly from 
the floor of his prison-cell, upon which he had 
been lying at full length, and shaking himself like a dog, 
stood before the gaoler. 

“ Can’t you let me alone ? ” he asked, in a coarse, 
savage voice. 

“ Scum of the gutter ! ” replied the gaoler. “ Speak 
civilly while you have the power, and be thankful your 
tongue is not dragged out by the roots.” 

“ You would do it if you dared.” 

“ Ay — and a thousand honest men would rejoice to help 
me.” 


“ Is it to tell me this you disturbed me ? ” 

“No, murderer! ” 

“ What do you want of me ? ” 

The gaoler laughed at him in mockery. “ You look 
more like beast than man.” 

“ That’s how I’ve been treated,” growled Gautran. 

“ Better than you deserve. So, you have influential 
friends, it seems.” 

“ Have I ? ” with a venomous flash at the taunt. 

“ One will be here to see you directly.” 

“ Let him keep from me. I care to see no one.” 

“ That may be, but the choice is not yours. This gen- 
tleman is not to be denied.” 

“ A gentleman, eh ? ” exclaimed Gautran, with some 
slight show of interest. 

“ Yes, a gentleman.” 

“ Who is he, and what is his business with me ? ” 

“ He is a great lawyer, who has sent murderers to their 
doom ” 

“ Ah ! ” and Gautran drew a long vindictive breath 
through closed teeth. 

“ And has set some free, I’ve heard.” 

“ Is he going to do that for me ? ” asked Gautran, and 
a light of fierce hope shone in his eyes. 


THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 41 

“ He will earn Heaven’s curse if he does, and man’s as 
well. Here he is. Silence.” 

The door was opened, and the Advocate entered the 
cell. 

“ This is Gautran ? ” he asked of the gaoler. 

“ This is he,” replied the gaoler. 

“ Leave me alone with him.” 

“ It is against my orders, sir.” 

“ Here is your authority.” 

He handed to the gaoler a paper, which gave him per- 
mission to hold free and uninterrupted converse with 
Gautran, accused of the murder of Madeline the flower- 
girl. The interview not to last longer than an hour. 

The gaoler prepared to depart, but before he left the 
cell he said in an undertone : 

“ Be careful of the man ; he is a savage, and not to be 
trusted.” 

“ There is nothing to fear,” said the Advocate. 

The gaoler lingered a moment, and then retired. 

The cell was but dimly lighted, and the Advocate, com- 
ing into it from the full sunlight of a bright day, could 
not see clearly for a little while. On the other hand, 
Gautran, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, had 
a distinct view of the Advocate, and in a furtive, hang- 
dog fashion he closely inspected the features of his visitor. 
The man who stood before him could obtain his condem- 
nation or his acquittal. Dull-witted as he was, this con- 
viction was as much an intuition as an impression gained 
from the gaoler’s remarks. 

“ You are a woodman? ” said the Advocate. 

“ Aye, a woodman. It is well known.” 

“ Have you parents ? ” 

“ They are dead.” 

“ Any brothers or sisters ? ” 

“ None. I was the only one.” 

“ Friends ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Have vou wife or children? ” 

“ Neither.” 

“ How much money have you ? ” 


42 THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 


“ Not a sou.” 

“ What about this murder ? ” asked the Advocate 
abruptly. 

“ What about it, then ? ” demanded Gautran. The ques- 
tions asked by the Advocate were more judicial than 
friendly, and he assumed an air of defiance. 

“ Speak in a different tone. I am here to assist you, 
if I see my way. You have no lawyer to defend you ? ” 

“ How should I get one ? What lawyer works without 
pay, and where should I find the money to pay him ? ” 

“ Heed what I say. I do not ask you if you are inno- 
cent or guilty of the crime of which you stand charged, 
for that is a formula and, guilty or not guilty, you would 
return but one answer. Have you anything to tell me?” 

“ I can’t think of anything.” 

“ You have led an evil life.” 

“ Not my fault. Can a man choose his own parents and 
his country ? The life I have led I was born into ; and 
that is to stand against me.” 

“ Are there any witnesses who would come forward 
and speak in your favour ? ” 

“ None that I know of.” 

“ Is it true that you were walking with the girl on the 
night she was murdered ? ” 

“ No man has heard me deny it,” said Gautran, shud- 
dering. 

“ Why do you shudder ? ” 

“ Master, you asked me just now whether I had a wife, 
and I told you I had none. This girl was to have been 
my wife. I loved her, and we were to have been 
married.” 

“ That is disputed.” 

“ Everything is disputed that would tell in my favour. 
The truth is of no use to a poor devil caught in a trap as 
I am. Have you heard any good of me, master ? ” 

“ Not any ; all that I have heard is against you.” 

“ That is the way of it. Well, then, judge for your- 
self.” 

“ Can you indicate anyone who would be likely to 
murder the girl ? You shudder again.” 

“ I cannot help it. Master, put yourself in this cell, as 


THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 43 

I am put, without light, without hope, without money, 
without a friend. You would need a strong nerve to stand 
it. You want to know if I can point out anyone who 
could have done the deed but me? Well, if I were free, 
and came face to face with him, I might. Not that I 
could say anything, or swear to anything for certain, 
for I did not see it done. No, master, I will not lie to you. 
Where would be the use? You are clever enough to find 
me out. But I had good reason to suspect, aye, to know, 
that the girl had other lovers, who pressed her hard, I 
dare say; some who were rich, while I was poor; some 
who were almost mad for her. She was followed by a 
dozen and more. She told me so herself, and used to 
laugh about it; but she never mentioned a name to me. 
You know something of women, master; they like the 
men to follow them — the best of them do^ladies as well 
as peasants. They were sent into the world to drive us 
to perdition. I was jealous of her, yes, I was jealous. 
Am I guilty because of that? How could I help being 
jealous when I loved her? It is in a man’s blood. Well, 
then, what more can I say ? ” 

In his intent observance of Gautran’s manner the Ad- 
vocate seemed to weigh every word that fell from the 
man’s lips. 

“ At what time did you leave the girl on the last night 
you saw her alive ? ” 

“ At ten o’clock.” 

“ She was alone at that hour ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you see her again after that ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you have reason to suspect that she was to meet 
any other man on that night ? ” 

“ If I had thought it, I should have stopped with her.” 

“ For what purpose ? ” 

“ To see the man she had appointed to meet.” 

“ And having seen him ? ” 

“ He would have had to answer to me. I am hot- 
blooded, master, and can stand up for my rights.” 

“Would you have harmed the girl?” 

“ No, unless she had driven me out of my senses.” 


44 THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 

“ Were you in that state on the night of her death? ” 

“ No — I knew what I was about.” 

“ You were heard to quarrel with her.” 

“ I don’t deny it.” 

“ You were heard to say you would kill her.” 

“ True enough. I told her if ever I found out that she 
was false to me, I would kill her.” 

“ Had she bound herself to marry you ? ” 

“ She had sworn to marry me.” 

“ The handkerchief round her neck, when her body 
was discovered in the river, is proved to have been yours.” 

“ It was mine ; I gave it to her. I had not much to 
give.” 

“ When you were arrested you were searched ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Was anything taken from you?” 

“ My knife.” 

. “ Had you and the girl’s secret lover — supposing she 
had one — met on that night, you might have used your 
knife.” 

“ That is speaking beforehand. I can’t say what might 
have happened.” 

“ Come here into the light. Let me look at your 
hands.” 

“ What trick are you going to play me, master ? ” asked 
Gautran, in a suspicious tone. 

“No trick,” replied the Advocate sternly. “ Obey me, 
or I leave you.” 

Gautran debated with himself in silence for a full 
minute; then, with an impatient movement, as though it 
could not matter one way or another, he moved into the 
light, and held out his hands. 

The Advocate, taking a powerful glass from nis pocket, 
examined the prisoner’s fingers and nails and wrists with 
the utmost minuteness, Gautran, the while, wrapped in 
wonder at the strange proceeding. 

“ Now,” said the Advocate, “ hold your head back, so 
that the light may shine on your face.” 

Gautran obeyed, warily holding himself in readiness to 
spring upon the Advocate in case of an attack. By the 
aid of his glass the Advocate examined Gautran’s face 


THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 45 

and neck with as much care as he had bestowed upon the 
hands, and then said : 

“ That will do.” 

“ What is it all for, master ? ” asked Gautran. 

“ I am here to ask questions, not to answer them. Since 
your arrest, have you been examined as I have examined 
you?” 

“ No, master.” 

“ Has any examination whatever been made of you by 
doctors or gaolers or lawyers ? ” 

“ None at all.” 

“ How long had you known the girl ? ” 

“ Ever since she came into the neighbourhood.” 

“ Were you not acquainted with her before?” 

“ No.” 

“ From what part of the country did she come?” 

“ I can’t say.” 

“ Not knowing? ” 

“ Not knowing.” 

“ But being intimate with her, you could scarcely avoid 
asking her the question.” 

“ I did ask her, and I was curious to find out. She 
would not satisfy me; and when I pressed her, she said 
the other one — Pauline — had made her promise not to 
tell.” 

“ You don’t know, then, where she was born? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Her refusal to tell you — was it lightly or seriously 
uttered ? ” 

“ Seriously.” 

“ As though there was a secret in her life she wished to 
conceal ? ” 

“ I never thought of it in that way, but I can see now it 
must have been so.” 

“ Something discreditable, then? ” 

“ Most likely. Master, you go deeper than I do.” 

“ What relationship existed between Pauline and Made- 
line?” 

“ Some said they were sisters, but there was a big dif- 
ference in their ages. Others said that Pauline was her 
mother, but I don’t believe it, for they never spoke together 


46 THE INTERVIEW IN THE PRISON 

in that way. Master, I don’t know what to say about it ; 
it used to puzzle me ; but it was no business of mine.” 

“ Did you never hear Pauline address Madeline as her 
child?” 

“ Never.” 

“ They addressed each other by their Christian 
names ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did they resemble each other in feature ? ” 

“ There was something of a likeness between them.” 

“ Why did Pauline leave the girl ? ” 

“ No one knew.” 

“ That is all you can tell me ? ” 

“ That is all.” 

Then after a slight pause, the Advocate asked : 

“ Do you value your liberty ? ” 

“Yes, master,” replied Gautran excitedly. 

“ Let no person know what has passed between us, and 
do not repeat one word I have said to you.” 

“ I understand ; you may depend upon me. But 
master, will you not tell me something more? Am I to 
be set free or not ? ” 

“ You are to be tried; what is brought against you at 
your trial will establish either your innocence or your 
guilt.” 

He knocked at the door of the prison cell, and the 
gaoler opened it for him and let him out. 

“ Well, Gautran ? ” said the gaoler, but Gautran, 
wrapped in contemplation of the door through which the 
Advocate had taken his departure, paid no attention to 
him. “ Do you hear me ? ” cried the gaoler, shaking his 
prisoner with no gentle hand. 

“ What now?” 

“ Is the great lawyer going to defend you ? ” 

“ You want to know too much,” said Gautran, and re- 
fused to speak another word on the subject. 

During the whole of the day there were but two figures 
in his mind — those of the Advocate and the murdered 
girl. The latter presented itself in various accusing as- 
pects, and he vainly strove to rid himself of the spectre. 
Its hair hung in wild disorder over neck and bosom, its 


THE ADVOCATE 


47 


white lips moved, its mournful eyes struck terror to his 
soul. The figure of the Advocate presented itself in far 
different aspects; it was always terrible, Satanic, and 
damning in its suggestions. 

“ What matter,” muttered Gautran, “ if he gets me off? 
I can do as I please then.” 

In the evening, when the small window in his cell was 
dark, the gaoler heard him crying out loudly. He entered, 
and demanded what ailed the wretch. 

“ Light — light ! ” implored Gautran ; “ give me light ! ” 

“ Beast in human shape,” said the gaoler ; “ you have 
light enough. You’ll get no more. Stop your howling, 
or I’ll stop it for you ! ” 

“ Light ! light ! light ! ” moaned Gautran, clasping his 
hands over his eyes. But he could not shut out the 
phantom of the murdered girl, which from that moment 
never left him. So he lay and writhed during the night, 
and would have dashed his head against the wall to put an 
end to his misery had he not been afraid of death. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE ADVOCATE UNDERTAKES A STRANGE TASK. 

I T was on the evening of this day, the third since the 
arrival of the Advocate in Geneva, that he said to 
his wife over the dinner-table : 

“ I shall in all likelihood be up the whole of to-night in 
my study. Do not let me be disturbed.” 

“ Who should disturb you ? ” asked Adelaide languidly. 
“ There are only you and I in the villa ; of course I would 
not venture to intrude upon you without permission.” 

“ You misunderstand me, Adelaide ; it is because we are 
in a strange house that I thought it best to tell you.” 

“ As if there were anything unusual in your shutting 
yourself up all night in your study! Our notions of the 
way to lead an agreeable life are so different ! Take your 
own course, Edward ; you are older and wiser than I ; but 
you must not wonder that I think it strange. You come to 
the country for rest, and you are as hard at work as ever.” 


48 


THE ADVOCATE 


“ I cannot live without work ; aimless days would send 
me to my grave. If you are lonely, Adelaide ” 

“ Oh, no, I am not,” she cried vivaciously, “ at least, not 
yet. There is so much in the neighbourhood that is in- 
teresting. Dionetta and I have been out all day seeing 
the sights. On the road to Master Lamont’s house there is 
the loveliest rustic bridge. And the wild flowers are. the 
most beautiful I have ever seen. We met a priest, Father 
Capel, a gentle-looking man, with the kindest face ! He 
said he intended to call upon you, and hoped to be per- 
mitted. I said, of course, you would be charmed. I had 
a good mind to visit Master Lamont, but his house was 
too far up the hills. Fool Fritz joined us; he is very 
amusing, with his efforts to be wise. I was delighted 
everywhere with the people. I went into some of their 
cottages, and the women were very respectful; and the 
children — upon my word, Edward, they stare at me as 
if I were a picture.” 

The Advocate looked up at this, and regarded his wife 
with fond admiration. In his private life two influences 
were dominant — love for his wife, and friendship for 
Christian Aimer. Fie had love for no other woman, and 
friendship for no other man, and his trust in both was a 
perfect trust. 

“ I do not wonder that the children stare at you,” he said ; 
“ you must be a new and pleasant experience to them.” 

“ I believe they take me for a saint,” she said, laughing 
gaily ; “ and I need not tell you that I am very far from 
being one.” 

“ You are, as we all are, human ; and very beautiful, 
Adelaide.” 

She gazed at him in surprise. 

“ It is not often you pay me compliments.” 

“ Do you need them from me ? To be sure of my 
affection — is not that sufficient ? ” 

“ But I am fond of compliments.” 

“ I must commence a new study, then,” he said gravely ; 
it was difficult for him to indulge in light themes for many 
minutes together. “ So you are making yourself ac- 
quainted with the neighbours. I hope you will not soon 
tire of them.” 


THE ADVOCATE 49 

“ When I do I must seek out some other amusement. 
You have also discovered something since you came here 
in which you appear to be wonderfully interested.” 

“ Yes ; a criminal case ” 

“ A criminal case ! ” she echoed pettishly. 

“ In which there is a great mystery. I do not trouble 
you with these law matters ; long ago you expressed weari- 
ness of such themes.” 

Her humour changed again. 

“ A mystery ! ” she exclaimed with child-like vivacity, 
“ in a place where news is so scarce ! It must be delight- 
ful. What is it about ? There is a woman in it, of course. 
There always is.” 

“ Yes; a young woman, whose body was found in the 
Rhone.” 

“ Murdered?” 

“ Murdered, as it at present seems.” 

“ The wretch ! Have they caught him? For of course 
it is a man who committed the dreadful deed.” 

“ One is in prison, charged with the crime. I visited 
him to-day.” 

“ Surely you are not going to defend him ? ” 

“ It is probable. I shall decide to-night.” 

“ But why, Edward, why? If the man is guilty, should 
he not be punished ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly he should. And if he is innocent, he 
should not be made to suffer. He is poor and friendless ; 
it will be a relief for me to take up the case, should I be- 
lieve him to be unjustly accused.” 

“ Is he young — handsome — and was it done through 
jealousy? ” 

“ I have told you the case is shrouded in mystery. As 
for the man charged with the crime, he is very common 
and repulsive-looking.” 

“ And vou intend to defend such a creature ? ” 

“ Most* likely.” 

She shrugged her shoulders with a slight gesture of 
contempt. She had no understanding of his motives, no 
sympathy in his labours, no pride in his victories.” 

When he retired to his study he did not immediately 
proceed to the investigation of the case of Gautran, as it 


50 THE ADVOCATE 

was set forth in the numerous papers which lay on the 
table. These papers, in accordance with the given prom- 
ise, had been sent to him by Pierre Lamont, and it was 
his intention to employ the hours of the night in a care- 
ful study of the details of the affair, and of the conjectures 
and opinions of editors and correspondents. 

But he held his purpose back for a while, and for 
nearly half-an-hour paced the floor slowly in deep thought. 
Suddenly he went out, and sought his wife’s private room. 

“ It did not occur to me before,” he said, “ to tell you 
that a friend of Christian Aimer’s— Mr. Hartrich, the 
banker — in a conversation I had with him, expressed his 
belief that Aimer was suffering.” 

“ 111 ! ” she cried in an agitated tone. 

“ In mind, not in body. You have received letters from 
him lately, I believe ? ” 

“ Yes, three or four — the last a fortnight ago.” 

“ Does he say he is unwell ? ” 

“No; but now I think of it, he does not write in his 
usual good spirits.” 

“ You have his address? ” 

“Yes; he is in Switzerland, you know.” 

“ So Mr. Hartrich informed me — somewhere in the 
mountains, endeavouring to extract peace of mind from 
silence and solitude. That is well enough for a few days, 
and intellectual men are always grateful for such a 
change ; but, if it is prolonged, there is danger of its bring- 
ing a mental disease of a serious and enduring nature upon 
a man brooding upon unhealthy fancies. I value Aimer 
too highly to lose sight of him, or to allow him to drift. 
He has no family ties, and is in a certain sense a lonely 
man. Why should he not come and remain with us dur- 
ing our stay in the village? I had an idea that he him- 
self would have proposed doing so.” 

“ He might have considered it indelicate,” said Adelaide 
with a bright colour in her face, “ the house being his. 
As if he had a right to be here.” 

“ It is by no means likely,” said the Advocate, shak- 
ing his head, “ that Aimer would ever be swayed by other 
than generous and large-minded considerations. Write to 
him to-night, and ask him to leave his solitude, and make 


51 


THE ADVOCATE 

his home with us. He will be company for you, and your 
bright and cheerful ways will do him good. The prospect 
of his visit has already excited you, I see. I am afraid,” 
he said, with a regretful pathos in his voice, “ that my 
society affords you but poor enjoyment; yet I never 
thought otherwise, when you honoured me by accepting 
my proposal of marriage, than that you loved me.” 

“ I hope you do not think otherwise now,” she said in a 
low tone. 

“ Why, no,” he said with a sigh of relief ; “ what reason 
have I to think otherwise? We had time to study each 
other’s characters, and I did not present myself in a false 
light. But we are forgetting Aimer. Can you divine any 
cause for unusual melancholy in him ? ” 

She seemed to consider, and answered : 

“ No, she could not imagine why he should be melan- 
choly.” 

“ Mr. Hartrich,” continued the Advocate, “ suggested 
that he might have experienced a disappointment in love, 
but I could not entertain the suggestion. Aimer and I 
have for years exchanged confidences in which much of 
men’s inner natures is revealed, and had he met with such 
a disappointment, he would have confided in me. I may 
be mistaken, however; your opinion would be valuable 
here; in these delicate matters, women are keen ob- 
servers.” 

“Mr. Hartrich’s suggestion is absurd; I am convinced 
Mr. Aimer has not met with a disappointment in love. He 
is so bright and attractive ” 

“ That any woman,” said the Advocate, taking up the 
thread, for Adelaide seemed somewhat at a loss for 
words, “ might be proud to win him. That is your 
thought, Adelaide.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I agree with you. I have never in my life known a 
man more likely to inspire love in a woman’s heart than 
Christian Aimer, and I have sometimes wondered that he 
had not met with one to whom he was drawn; it would 
be a powerful influence over him for good. Of an impure 
passion I believe him incapable. Write to him to-night, 
and urge him to come to us.” 


52 THE ADVOCATE 

“If you wrote to him, also, it would be as well.” 

“ I will do so ; you can enclose my letter in yours. How 
does your new maid suit you ? ” 

“ Admirably. She is perfection.” 

“ Which does not exist.” 

“ If I could induce her grandmother to part with her, I 
should like to keep her with me always.” 

“ Do not tempt her, Adelaide. For a simple maid a 
country life is the happiest and best — indeed, for any 
maid, or any man, young or old.” 

“ How seldom practice and precept agree ! Why do you 
not adopt a country life ? ” 

“ Too late. A man must follow his star. I should die 
of inaction in the country; and you — I smile when I 
think what would become of you were I to condemn you 
to it.” 

“ You are not always right. I adore the country ! ” 

“ For an hour and a day. Adelaide, you could not 
exist out of society.” 

Until the Alpine peaks were tipped with the fire of the 
rising sun, the Advocate remained in his study, investi- 
gating and considering the case of Gautran. Only once 
did he leave it to give his wife the letter he wrote to 
Christian Aimer. Newspaper after newspaper was read 
and laid aside, until the long labour came to its end. 
Then the Advocate rose, with no trace of fatigue on his 
countenance, and according to his wont, walked slowly up 
and down in deep thought. His eyes rested occasionally 
upon the grotesque and hideous figures carved on 
the old sideboard, which, had they been sentient and en- 
dowed with the power of speech, might have warned him 
that he had already, within the past few hours, woven 
one tragic link in his life, and have held him back from 
weaving another. But he saw no warning in their fan- 
tastic faces, and before he retired to rest he had formed 
his resolve. On the following day all Geneva was 
startled by the news that the celebrated Advocate, who 
had travelled thither for rest from years of arduous toil, 
had undertaken the defence of a wretch upon whose soul, 
in the opinion of nearly every thinking man and woman, 
the guilt of blood lay heavily, The trial of Gautran was 


TWO LETTERS 53 

instantly invested with an importance which elevated it 
into an absorbing theme with every class of society. 


CHAPTER X 

TWO LETTERS — FROM FRIEND TO FRIEND, FROM LOVER 
TO LOVER 

I 

** JWY DEAR ALMER, — We have been here three 
\/| days, and are comfortably established in your 
± ▼ singularly-named villa, the House of White 
Shadows. It is a perfect country residence, and the 
scenery around it is, I am told, charming. As you are 
aware, I have no eyes for the beauties of Nature ; human 
nature and human motive alone interest me, and my im- 
pressions of the neighbourhood are derived from the de- 
scriptions of my wife, who enjoys novelty with the im- 
pulsive enjoyment of a child. It appears that she was 
enchanted when she heard from your lips that your house 
was supposed to be haunted by shadows, and although 
you cautioned her immediately afterwards, she was not to 
be deterred from accepting your invitation. Up to this 
time, no ghost has appeared to her, nor has my composure 
been disturbed by supernatural visions. I am a non-be- 
liever in visions from the spiritual world ; she is only too 
ready to believe. It is the human interest attached to 
such fancies — for which, of course, there must be some 
foundation — which fascinates and arrests the general at- 
tention. There, for me, the interest ends ; I do not travel 
beyond reality. 

“ I am supposed to have come for rest and repose. The 
physicians who laid this burden upon me know little of 
my nature; idleness is more irksome, and I believe more 
injurious, to me than the severest labour; and it is a re- 
lief, therefore, to me to find myself interested in a startling 
criminal case which is shortly coming on for trial in 
Geneva. It is a case of murder, and a man is in prison, 
charged with its commission. He has no friends, he has 


54 


TWO LETTERS 

no means, he is a vicious creature of the commonest and 
lowest type. There is nothing in him to recommend him 
to favour ; he is a being to be avoided — but these are not 
the points to be considered. Is the man guilty or not 
guilty? He is pronounced guilty by universal public 
opinion, and the jury which will be empannelled to try him 
will be ready to convict upon the slightest evidence, or, 
indeed, without evidence. The trial will be a mockery 
of justice unless the accused is defended by one who is 
not influenced by passion and prejudice. There is a fea- 
ture in the case which has taken powerful' possession of 
me, and which, as far as I can judge, has not occurred 
to others. I intend to devote the whole of to-night to a 
study of the details of the crime, and it is likely that I shall 
undertake the defence of this repulsive creature — no doubt 
much to his astonishment. I have, with this object in 
view, already had an interview with him in his prison- 
cell, and the trouble I had to obtain permission to see him 
is a sufficient indication of the popular temper. When, 
therefore, you hear — if in the mountain fastness in which 
you are intrenched, you have the opportunity of hearing 
any news at all from the world at your feet — that I have 
undertaken the defence of a man named Gautran, accused 
of the murder of a flower-girl named Madeline, do not be 
surprised. 

“ What is most troubling me at the present moment 
is — what is my wife to do, how is she to occupy her time, 
during our stay in the House of White Shadows? At 
present she is full of animation and delight; the new 
faces and scenery by which she is surrrounded are very 
attractive to her; but the novelty will wear off and then 
she will grow dull. Save me from self-reproach and un- 
easiness by taking up your residence with us, if not for the 
whole of the time we remain here, which I should much 
prefer, at least for a few weeks. By so doing you will 
confer a service upon us all. My wife enjoys your so- 
ciety; you know the feeling I entertain for you; and 
personal association with sincere friends will be of real 
benefit to you. I urge it earnestly upon you, for I have 
an impression that you are brooding over unhealthy 
fancies, and that you have sought solitude for the purpose 


TWO LETTERS 


55 


of battling with one of those ordinary maladies of the 
mind to which sensitive natures are prone. If it be so, 
Christian, you are committing a grave error ; the battle is 
unequal ; silence and seclusion will not help you to a vic- 
tory over yourself. Come and unbosom yourself to me, 
if you have anything to unbosom, and do not fear that I 
shall intrude either myself or my advice upon you against 
your inclination. If you have a grief, meet it in the so- 
ciety of those who love you. There is a medicine in a 
friendly smile, in a friendly word, which you cannot find 
in solitude. One needs sometimes, not the sunshine of 
fair weather, but the sunshine of the soul. Here it 
awaits you, and should you bring dark vapours with you 
I promise you they will soon be dispelled. I am dis- 
posed — out of purest friendliness — to insist upon your 
coming, and to be so uncharitable as to accept it as an 
act of weakness if you refuse me. When the case of 
Gautran is at an end I shall be an idle man ; you, and 
only you, can avert the injurious effect idleness will have 
upon me. We will find occupation together, and create 
reminiscences for future pleasant thought. It may be a 
long time, if ever, before another opportunity so favour- 
able occurs for passing a few weeks in each other’s so- 
ciety, undisturbed by professional cares and duties. You 
see I am taking a selfish view of the matter. Add an in- 
estimable value to your hospitality by coming here at 
once and sweetening my leisure. 

“ Your friend, 

“ Edward.” 


II 

“ My Own, — My husband is uneasy about you, and 
has imposed a task upon me. You shall judge for your- 
self whether it is a disagreeable one. I am to write to 
you immediately, to insist upon your coming to us without 
an hour’s delay. You have not the option of refusal. The 
Advocate insists upon it, and I also insist upon it. You 
must come. Upon the receipt of this letter you will pack 
up ^your portmanteau, and travel hither in the swiftest 
possible way, by the shortest possible route. Be sure that 


56 TWO LETTERS 

you do not disobey me. You are to come instantly, with- 
out an hour’s — nay, without a moment’s delay. If you 
fail I will not answer for the consequences, and upon 
.you will rest the responsibility of all that follows. , For 
what reason, do you suppose, did I accept the offer of 
your villa in this strangely quiet valley, unless it was in 
the hope and the belief that we should be near each other? 
And now that I am here, pledged to remain, unable to 
leave without an exhibition of the most dreadful vacilla- 
tion — which would not matter were I to have my own way, 
and were everything to be exactly as I wish it — you are 
bound to fly swiftly to the side of one who entertains for 
you the very sincerest affection. Do not be angry with me 
for my disregard of your caution to be careful in my 
manner of writing to you. I cannot help it. I think of 
you continually, and if you wish me not to write what 
you fear other eyes than ours might see, you must come 
and talk to me. I shall count the minutes till you are here. 
The Advocate is uneasy about you, and is, indeed and in- 
deed, most anxious that you should be with us. He seems 
to have an idea that you have some cause for melancholy, 
and that you are brooding over it. Could anything be more 
absurd? Cause for melancholy! Just as if you were alone 
in the world! You do not need to be told that there is 
one being who will care for you till she is an old, old 
woman. Think of me as I shall be then. An old woman, 
with white hair, walking with a crutch-stick, as they do 
on the stage. If you are sad, it is a just punishment 
upon you. There was nothing in the world to prevent 
your travelling with us. What do you think a friend of 
yours, a banker in Geneva, suggested to the Advocate? 

* He said that it was probable that you had experienced a 
disappointment in love. Now, this sets me thinking. 
Why have you chosen to hide yourself in the mountains, 
a hundred and a hundred miles away? Have you been 
there before? Is there some pretty girl to attract you, 
from whom you find it impossible to tear yourself? If it 
is so, let her beware of me. You have no idea of what I 
should be capable if you gave me cause for jealousy. 
What is her disposition — pensive or gay ? She is younger 
than I am, I suppose — though I am not so old, sir ! — with 


TWO LETTERS 57 

hands Ah, I am easier in my mind; her hands must 

be coarse, for she is a peasant. I am almost reconciled; 
you could never fall in love with a peasant. They may be 
pretty and fresh for a month or two, but they cannot help 
being coarse, and I know how anything coarse grates 
upon you. But a peasant-girl might fall in love with 
you — there are more unlikely things than that. Shall I 
tell you what the Advocate said of you this evening? Pt 
will make you vain, but never mind. ‘ I have never in my 
life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman’s 
heart than Christian Aimer.’ There, sir, his very words. 
How true they are ! Ah, how cruel was the chance that 
separated us from each other, and brought us together 
again when I was another man’s wife ! Oh, if I had only 
known ! If some kind fairy had told me that the man 
who, when I was a child, enthralled me with his beauti- 
ful fancies, and won my heart, and who then, as it seemed, 
passed out of my life — if I had suspected that, after many 
years, he would return home from his wanderings with the 
resolve to seek out the child and make her his wife, do 
you for one moment suppose I would not have waited for 
him ? Do you think it possible I could ever have accepted 
the hand of another man ? No, it could not have been, for 
even as a child I used to dream of you, and held you in 
my heart above all other human beings. But you were 
gone — I never thought of seeing you again — and I was so 
young that I could have had no foreshadowing of what 
was to come. 

“ Have you ever considered how utterly different my 
life might have been had you not crossed it? Not that I 
reproach you — do not think that ; but how strangely things 
turn out, without the principal actor having anything to 
do with them ! It is exactly like sitting down quietly by 
yourself, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things hap- 
pen in which you have no hand, though if you were not in 
existence they could never have occurred. Just think for 
a moment. If it had not happened that you knew me 
when I was a child, and was fond of me then, as you have 
told me I don’t know how many times — if it had not hap- 
pened that your restless, spirit drove you abroad where 
you remained for years and years and years — if it had not 


58 TWO LETTERS 

happened that, tired of leading a wandering life, you re- 
solved to come home and seek out the child you used to 
pet and make love to (but she did not know the meaning 
of love then)— if it had not happened that, entirely igno- 
rant of what was passing in your mind, the child, grown 
into a pretty woman (I think I may say that, without 
vanity), was persuaded by her friends that to refuse an 
offer of marriage made to her by a great lawyer, famous 
and rich, was something too shocking to contemplate — if 
it had not happened that she, knowing nothing of her own 
heart, knowing nothing of the world, allowed herself to be 
guided by these cold calculating friends to accept a man 
utterly unsuited to her, and with whom she has never 
had an hour’s real happiness — if it had not happened 
by the strangest chance, that this man and you were 

friends There, my dear, follow it out for yourself, and 

reflect how different our lives might have been if every- 
thing had happened in the way it ought to have done. I 
was cheated and tricked into a marriage with a man whose 
heart has room for only one sentiment — ambition. I am 
bound to him for life, but I am yours till death — although 
the bond which unites us is, as you have taught me, but a 
spiritual bond. 

“ Are you angry with me for putting all this on paper ? 
You must not be, for I cannot help it if I am not wise. 
Wisdom belongs to men. Come, then, and give me wise 
counsel, and prevent me from committing indiscretions.. 
For 1 declare to you, upon my heart and honour, if you 
do not very soon present yourself at the House of White 
Shadows, I will steal from it in the night and make my 
way to the mountains to see what wonderful attraction it 
is that separates us. What food for scandal ! What 
wagging and shaking of heads! How the women’s 
tongues would run ! I can imagine it all. Save me from 
exposure as you are a true man. 

“ You have made the villa beautiful. As I walk about 
the house and grounds I am filled with delight to think 
that you have effected such a magic change for my sake. 
Master Lamont has shown really exquisite taste. What 
a singular old man he is. I can’t decide whether I like 
him or not. But how strange that you should have had 


TWO LETTERS 


59 


it all done by deputy, and that you have not set foot in 
the house since you were a child. You see I know a great 
deal. Who tells me? My new maid Dionetta. Do you 
remember, in one of the letters you showed me from your 
steward, that he spoke about the old housekeeper, Mother 
, Denise, and a pretty granddaughter ? I made up my 
mind at the time that the pretty granddaughter should 
be my maid. And she is, and her name is Dionetta. Is 
it not pretty ? — but not prettier than the owner. Will that 
tempt you? I have sent my town maid away, much to 
her displeasure; she spoke to the Advocate in complaint, 
but he did not mention it to me ; I found it out for myself. 
He is as close as the grave. So I am here absolutely alone, 
with none but strangers around me. 

“ I am very much interested in the pictures in the studio 
of the old chalet, especially in a pair which represents, the 
first, two lovers with the sun shining on them ; the second, 
the lovers parted by a cold grey sea. They stand on op- 
posite shores, gazing despairingly at each other. He must 
have been a weak-minded man indeed; he should have 
taken a boat, and rowed across to her; and if he was 
afraid to do that, she should have gone to him. That 
would have been the most sensible thing. 

“ I could continue my gossip till daylight breaks, but I 
have already lost an hour of my beauty sleep, and I want 
you, upon your arrival, to see me at my best. 

“ My heart goes with this letter ; bring it swiftly back 
to me.” 


“ Yours for ever, 

“ Adelaide.” 


60 


FIRE AND SNOW 


CHAPTER XI 

FIRE AND SNOW FOOL FRITZ INFORMS PIERRE LAMONT 

WHERE ACTUAL LOVE COMMENCES 

TEWS, Master Lamont, news! ” 
a Of what nature, Fritz ?” 

1 1 “ Of a diabolical nature. Satan is busy.” 

“ He is never idle — for which the priests, if they have 
any gratitude in them, should be thankful.” 

“ You are not fond of the priests, Master Lamont.” 

“ I do not hate them.” 

“ Still you are not fond of them.” 

“ I do not love them. Your news, fool — concerning 
whom ? ” 

“ A greater than you, or you do not speak the truth.” 

“ The Advocate, then ? ” 

“ The same. You are a good guesser.” 

“ Fritz, your news is stale.” 

“I am unlucky; I thought to be the first. You have 
heard the news ? ” 

“ Not I.” 

“ You have read a letter, informing you of it.” 

“ You are a bad guesser. I have neither received nor 
read a letter to-day.” 

“ You have heard nothing, you have read nothing; and 
yet you know.” 

“ As surely as you stand before me. Fritz, you are not 
a scholar, but I will give you a sum any fool can do. Add 
one to one — what do you make of it ? ” 

“ Why, that is easy enough, Master Lamont.” 

“ The answer then, fool ? ” 

“ One.” 

“ Good. You shall smart for it, in the most vulnerable 
part of man. You receive from me, every week, one franc. 
I owe you, for last week, one franc ; I owe you, for this, 
one.” 

“ That is so.” 

“ Last week, one ; this week, one. I discharge the 
liability.” And Pierre Lamont handed a franc to Fritz. 


FIRE AND SNOW 61 

Fritz weighed the coin in the palm of his hand, spun 
it in the air and smiled. 

“ Master Lamont, here is a fair challenge. If I prove 
to you that one and one are one, this franc you have given 
me shall not count off what you owe me.” 

> “ I agree.” 

“ When one man and one woman are joined in matri- 
mony, they become one flesh. Therefore, one and one are 
one. 

“ You have earned the franc, fool. Here are the two I 
owe you.” 

“ Now, perhaps, you will tell me what I came here to 
tell yon” 

“ The Advocate intends to defend Gautran, who stands 
charged with the murder of the flower-girl.” 

“ You are a master worth serving. I have half a mind 
to give you back your franc.” 

“ Make it a whole mind, Fritz.” 

“ No; second thoughts are best. My pockets are not as 
warm as yours. They are not so well lined. How did 
you guess, Master Lamont ? ” 

“ By means of a golden rule, an infallible rule, by the 
Rule of One — which, intelligibly interpreted to shallow 
minds — no offence, Fritz, I hope ” 

“ Don’t mind me, Master Lamont ; I am a fool and used 
to hard knocks.” 

“Then by the Rule of One, which means the rule of 
human nature — as, for example, that makes the drunkard 
stagger to the wine-shop and the sluggard to his bed — I 
guessed that the Advocate could not withstand so tempt- 
ing a chance to prove the truth of the scriptural words 
that all men are liars. What will be palatable information 
to me is the manner in which the news has been received.” 

“ Heaven keep me from ever being so received ! The 
Advocate has not added to the number of his friends. 
People are gazing at each other in amazement, and ask- 
ing for reasons which none are able to give.” 

“ And his wife, Fritz, his wife ? ” 

“ Takes as much interest in his doings as a bee does in 
the crawling of a snail.” 

“ Rogue, you have cheated me ! How about one and 
one being one ? ” 


02 FIRE AND SNOW 

“ There are marriages and marriages. This was not 
made in Heaven; when it came about there was a con- 
fusion in the pairing, and another couple are as badly off. 
There will be a natural end to both.” 

“ How brought about, fool ? ” 

“ By your own rule, the rule of human nature.” 

“ When a jumper jumps, he first measures his distance 
with his eye. Do they quarrel ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Does she look coldly upon him, or he upon her ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Is there silence between them ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You are a bad jumper, Fritz. You have not measured 
your distance. ” 

“ See, Master Lamont, I will prove it to you by a figure 
of speech. There travels from the south a flame of fire. 
There travels from the north a lump of snow. They meet. 
What happens? Either that the snow extinguishes the 
fire and it dies, or that the fire puts an end to the snow.” 

“ Fairly illustrated, Fritz. Fire and snow ! Truly a 
most unfortunate conjunction.” 

“ She was in the mood to visit you yesterday had you 
lived a mile nearer the valley.” 

“ You were out together.” 

“ She and Dionetta were walking, and I met them and 
accompanied them. She spoke graciously to the villagers, 
and went into the cottages, and drank more than one cup of 
milk. She was sweeter than sugar, Master Lamont, and 
won the hearts of some of the women and of all the men. 
As for the children, they would have followed her to the 
world’s end, I do believe, out of pure admiration. They 
carry now in their little heads the vision of the beautiful 
lady. Even Father Capel was struck by her beauty.” 

“ Priests are mortals, Fritz. On which side did you 
walk — next to my lady or Dionetta ? ” 

“ I should be wrecked in a tempest. I sail only in quiet 
lakes.” 

“ And the maid — did she object to your walking close to 
her? — for you are other than I take you to be if you did 
not walk close.” 


FIRE AND SNOW 63 

“ Why should she object? Am I not a man? Women 
rather like fools.” 

“ How stands the pretty maid with her new mistress ? ” 

“ In high favour, if one can judge from fingers.” 

“ Fritz, your wit resembles a tide that is for ever flow- 
ing. Favour me with your parable.” 

“ It is a delicate point to decide where actual love com- 
mences. Have you ever considered it, Master Lamont ? ” 

“ Not deeply, fool. In my young days I was a mad- 
brain ; you are a philosopher. Like a bee, I took what fell 
in my way, and did not puzzle myself or the flower with 
questions. Where love commences? In the heart.” 

“ No.” 

“ In the brain.” 

“ No.” 

“ In the eye.” 

“ No.” 

“ Where, then?” 

“ In the finger-tips. Dionetta and I, walking side by 
side, shoulder to shoulder, our arms hanging down, 
brought into close contact our finger-tips. What wonder 
that they touched ! ” 

“ Natural magnetism, Fritz.” 

“ With our finger-tips touching, we walked along, and 
if her heart palpitated as mine did, she must have ex- 
perienced an inward commotion. Master Lamont, this 
is a confession for your ears only. I should be base and 
ungrateful to hide it from you.” 

“ Your confidence shall be respected.” 

“ It leads to an answer to your question as to how Dio- 
netta stands with her new mistress. First the finger-tips, 
then the fingers, and her little hand was clasped in mine. 
It was then I felt the ring upon her finger.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

“ Now, Dionetta never till yesterday owned a ring. I 
felt it, as a man who is curious would do, and suddenly 
her hand was snatched from mine. A moment or two 
afterwards, her hand was in mine again, but the ring was 
gone. A fine piece of conjuring. A man is no match for 
a woman in these small ways. To-day I saw her for 
about as long as I could count three. ‘ Who gave you the 


64 STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 

ring ? ’ I asked. ‘ My lady/ she answered. * Don’t tell 
grandmother that I have got a ring.’ Therefore, Master 
Lamont, Dionetta stands well with her mistress.” 

“ Logically carried out, Fritz. The saints prosper your 
wooing.” 


CHAPTER XII 

THE STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 

I N his lonely room in the mountain hut in which he had 
taken up his quarters, Christian Aimer sat writing. 
It was early morning; he had risen before the sun. 
During the past week he had struggled earnestly with the 
terror which oppressed him ; his suffering had been great, 
but he believed he was conquering. The task he had im- 
posed upon himself of setting his duty before him in clear 
terms afforded him consolation. The book in which he 
was writing contained the record of a love which had 
filled him with unrest, and threatened to bring dishonour 
into his life. 

“ I thank Heaven,” he wrote, “ that I am calmer than 
I have been for several days. Separation has proved an 
inestimable blessing. The day may come when I shall 
look upon my love as dead, and shall be able to think of it 
as one thinks of a beloved being whom death has snatched 
away. 

“ Even now, as I think of her, there is no fever in the 
thought. I have not betrayed my friend. 

“ How would he regard me if he were acquainted with 
my mad passion — if he knew that the woman he adored 
looked upon him with aversion, and gave her love to the 
friend whom he trusted as a brother? 

“ There was the error. To listen to her confession of 
love, and to make confession of my own. 

“ That a man should so forget himself — should be so 
completely the slave of his passions ! 

“ How came it about ? When were the first words 
spoken ? 

“ She sat by my side, radiant and beautiful. Admir- 


STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 65 

ing glances from every part of the theatre were cast upon 
her. In a corner of the box sat her husband, silent and 
thoughtful, heedless of the brilliant scene before him, 
heedless of her, as it seemed, heedless of the music and the 
singers. 

“ Royalty was there, immediately facing us, and princes 
levelled their opera-glasses at her. 

“ There are moments of intoxication when reason and 
conscience desert us. 

“ We were stepping into the carriage when a note was 
delivered to him. He read it, and said, ‘ I cannot go with 
you ; I am called away. You will not miss me, as I do not 
dance. I will join you in a couple of hours.” 

“ So we went alone, we two together, and her hand 
rested lightly upon mine. And in the dance the words 
were spoken — words never to be recalled. 

“ What demon prompted them ? Why did not an angel 
whisper to me, ‘ Remember. There is a to-morrow/ 

“ But in the present the morrow is forgotten. A false 
sense of security shuts out all thoughts of the conse- 
quences of our actions. A selfish delight enthrals us, and 
we do not see the figure of Retribution hovering above 
us. 

“ It is only when we are alone with our conscience that 
this figure is visible. Then it is that we tremble; then it 
is that we hear words which appal us. 

“ Again and again has this occurred to me, and I have 
vowed to myself that I would tear myself from her — 
a vow as worthless as the gambler’s resolve to play no 
more. Drawn irresistibly forward, and finding in every 
meeting a shameful justification in the delusion that I 
was seeing her for the last time; and leaving her with a 
promise to come again soon. Incredible infatuation ! 
But to listen to the recital of her sorrows and unhappi- 
ness without sympathising with her — it was not possible ; 
and to hear her whisper, ‘ I love you, and only you,’ with- 
out being thrilled by the confession — a man would need 
to be made of stone. 

“ How often has she said to me, when speaking of her 
husband, ‘ He has no heart ! ’ 

“ Can I then, aver with any semblance of honesty that I 


66 STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 

have not betrayed my friend? Basely have I betrayed 
him. 

“ If I were sure that she would not suffer — if I were 
sure that she would forget me ! Coldness, neglect, indif- 
ference — they are sharp weapons, but I deserve to bleed. 

“ Still, I cry out against my fate. I have committed no 
crime. Love came to me and tortured me. But a man 
must perform a man’s duty. I will strive to perform 
mine. Then in years to come I may be able to think of 
the past without shame, even with pride at having con- 
quered. 

“ I have destroyed her portrait. I could not look upon 
her face and forget her.” 

A voice from an adjoining room caused him to lay aside 
his pen. It was the peasant, the master of the hut, calling 
to him, and asking if he was ready. He went out to the 
man. 

“ I heard you stirring,” said the peasant, “ and my 
young ones are waiting to show you where the edelweiss 
can be found.” 

The children, a boy and a girl, looked eagerly at Chris- 
tian Aimer. It had been arranged on the previous day 
that the three should go for a mountain excursion in 
search of the flower that brings good luck and good for- 
tune to the finder. The children were sturdy-limbed and 
ruddy-faced, and were impatient to be off. 

“ Breakfast first,” said Christian Aimer, pinching the 
little girl’s cheek. 

Brown bread, honey, goat’s milk, and an omelette were 
on the table, and the stranger, who had been as a god- 
send to the poor family, enjoyed the homely fare. The 
peasant had already calculated that if his lodger lived a 
year in the hut, they could save five hundred francs — a 
fortune. Christian Aimer had been generous to the chil- 
dren, in whose eyes he was something more than mortal. 
Money is a magic power. 

“ Will the day be fine ? ” asked Christian. 

“ Yes,” said the peasant ; “ but there will be a change 
in the evening. The little ones will know — you can trust 
to them/’ 


STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 67 

Young as they were, they could read the signs on Na- 
ture’s face, and could teach their gentleman friend wise 
things, great and rich as he was. 

The father accompanied them for a couple of miles ; he 
was a goat-herd, and, unlike others of his class, was by 
no means a silent man. 

“ You live a happy life here,” said Christian Aimer. 

“ Why, yes,” said the peasant ; “ it is happy enough. 
We have to eat, but not to spare; there is the trouble. 
Still, God be thanked. The children are strong and 
healthy ; that is another reason for thankfulness.” 

“ Is your wife, as you are, mountain born ? ” 

“ Yes ; and could tell you stories. And there,” said the 
peasant, pointing upwards afar off, “ as though it knew 
my wife were being talked of, there is the lammergeier.” 

An enormous vulture, which seemed to have suddenly 
grown out of the air, was suspended in the clouds. So 
motionless was it that it might have been likened to a 
sculptured work, wrought by an angel’s hand, and fixed in 
heaven as a sign. It could not have measured less than ten 
feet from wing to wing. Its colour was brown, with 
bright edges and white quills, and its fiery eyes were en- 
circled by broad orange-shaded rings. 

“ My wife,” said the peasant, “ has reason to remember 
the lammergeier. When she was three years old her 
father took her to a part of the mountains where they 
were hay-making, and not being able to work and attend 
to her at the same time, he set her down by the side of 
a hut. It was a fine sunny day, and Anna fell asleep. 
Her father, seeing her sleeping calmly, covered her face 
with a straw hat, and continued his work. Two hours 
afterwards he went to the spot, and Anna was gone. He 
searched for her everywhere, and all the haymakers as- 
sisted in the search, but Anna was nowhere to be found. 
My father and I — I was a mere lad at the time, five years 
older than Anna — were walking towards a mountain 
stream, three miles from where Anna had been sleeping, 
when I heard the cry of a child. It came from a precipice, 
and above this precipice a vulture was flying. We went 
in the direction of the cry, and found Anna lying on the 
edge of the precipice, clinging to the roots with her little 


68 


STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 


hand. She was slipping down, and would have slipped, to 
certain death had we been three minutes later. It was a 
difficult task to rescue her as it was, but we managed it, 
and carried her to her father. She had no cap to her 
head, and no shoes or stockings on her feet ; she had lost 
them in her flight through the air in the vulture’s beak. 
She has a scar on her left arm to this day as a remem- 
brance of her acquaintance with the lammergeier. So it 
fell out afterwards, when she was a young woman, that 
I married her.” 

Ever and again, as they walked onwards, Christian Ai- 
mer turned to look upon the vulture, which remained per- 
fectly still, with its wings outstretched, until it was hid 
from his sight by the peculiar formation of the valleys 
they were traversing. 

Hitherto their course had lain amidst masses of the 
most beautiful flowers ; gentians with purple bells, others 
spotted and yellow, with brilliant whorls of bloom, the 
lilac-flowered campanula, the anemone, the blue columbine 
and starwort, the lovely forget-me-not — which Christian 
Aimer mentally likened to bits of heaven dropped down 
— and the Alpine rose, the queen of Alpine flowers. Now 
all was changed. The track was bare of foliage; not a 
blade of grass peeped up from the barren rocks. 

“ There is good reason for it,” said the peasant ; “ here, 
long years ago, a man killed his brother in cold blood. 
Since that day no flowers will grow upon the spot. There 
are nights on which the spirit of the murderer wanders 
mournfully about these rocks; a black dog accompanies 
him, whose bark you can sometimes hear. This valley is 
accursed.” 

Soon afterwards the peasant left Christian Aimer to 
the guidance of the children, and with them the young 
man spent the day, sharing contentedly with them the 
black bread and hard sausage they had brought for dinner. 
This mid-day meal was eaten as they sat beside a lake, in 
the waters of which there was not a sign of life, and Chris- 
tian Aimer noticed that, as the children ate, they watched 
the bosom of this lake with a strange and singular interest. 

“ What are you gazing at ? ” he asked, curious to 
learn. 


STRUGGLE OF LOVE AND DUTY 69 

“ For the dead white trout,” answered the boy. 
“ Whenever a priest dies it floats upon the lake.” 

In the lower heights, where the fir-trees stretched their 
feathery tips to the clouds, they found the flower they 
were in search of, and the children were wild with delight. 
The sun was setting when they returned to the hut, tired 
and gratified with their day’s wanderings. The peasant’s 
wife smiled as she saw the edelweiss. 

“ A lucky love-flower,” she said to Christian Aimer. 

These simple words proved to him how hard was the 
lesson of forgetfulness he was striving to learn ; he was 
profoundly agitated by them. 

Night fell, and the clouds grew black. 

“ The wind is rising,” said the peasant ; “ an ill night 
for travellers. Here is one coming towards us.” 

It proved to be a guide who lived in the nearest post 
village, and who, duly commissioned for the service, 
brought to Christian Aimer the letters of the Advocate 
and his wife. 

“ A storm is gathering,” said the guide ; “ I must find 
shelter on the heights to-night.” 

In his lonely room Christian Aimer broke the seals, and 
by the dull light of a single candle read the lines written 
by friend to friend, by lover to lover. 

The thunder rolled over the mountains; the lightning 
flashed through the small window; the storm was upon 
him. 

He read the letters once only, but every word was im- 
pressed clearly upon his brain. For an hour he sat in 
silence, gazing vacantly at the edelweiss on the table, the 
lucky love-flower. 

The peasant’s wife called to him, and asked if he 
wanted anything. 

“ Nothing,” he replied, in a voice that sounded strange 
to him. 

“ I will leave the bread and milk on the table,” she said. 
“ Good-night.” 

He did not answer her, nor did he respond to the chil- 
dren’s good-night. Their voices, the children’s especially, 
seemed to his ears to come from a great distance. 

A drop of rain fell from the roof upon the candle, and 


70 THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 

extinguished the light. For a long while he remained in 
darkness, until all in the hut were sleeping ; then he went 
out into the wild night, clutching the letters tight in his 
hand. 

He staggered almost blindly onwards, and in the course 
of half an hour found himself standing on a narrow and 
perilous bridge, from which the few travellers who passed 
that way could obtain a view of a torrent which dashed 
with sublime and terrific force over a precipice upon the 
rocks below, a thousand feet down. 

“ If I were to grow dizzy now ! ” he muttered, with a 
reckless laugh; and he tempted fate by leaning over the 
narrow bridge, and gazing downwards into the dark 
depths. 

Indistinct shapes grew out of the mighty and eternal 
waterfall. Of hosts of angry men battling with each 
other ; of rushing horses ; of armies of vultures swooping 
down for prey ; of accusing and beautiful faces ; of smil- 
ing mouths and white teeth flashing; and, amidst the 
whirl, sounds of shrieks and laughter. 

Suddenly he straightened himself, and tearing Ade- 
laide’s letter into a thousand pieces, flung the evidence of 
a treacherous love into the furious torrent of waters ; and 
as he did so he thought that there were .times in a man’s 
life when death were the best blessing which Heaven 
could bestow upon him ! 

CHAPTER XIII 

THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 

T HE trial of Gautran was proceeding, and the court 
was thronged with an excited gathering of men 
and women, upon whom not a word in the story 
of the tragic drama was thrown away. Impressed by the 
great powers of the Advocate who had undertaken to ap- 
pear for the accused, the most effective measures had been 
adopted to prove Gautran’s guilt, and obtain a conviction. 

It was a legal battle, fought with all the subtle weapons 
at the disposal of the law. 

Gautran’s prosecutors fought with faces unmasked, 


THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 


71 


and with their hands displayed ; the Advocate, on the con- 
trary, was pursuing a course which none could fathom ; 
nor did he give a clue to it. Long before the case was 
closed the jury were ready to deliver their verdict; but, 
calm and unmoved, the Advocate, with amazing patience, 
followed out his secret theory, the revelation of which was 
awaited, by those who knew him best and feared him most, 
with intense and painful curiosity. 

Every disreputable circumstance in Gautran’s life was 
raked up to display the odiousness of his character; his 
infamous career was tracked from his childhood to the 
hour of his arrest. A creature more debased, with fea- 
tures more hideous, it would have been difficult to drag 
forward from the worst haunts of crime and shame. De- 
graded he was born, degraded he had lived, degraded he 
stood before his judges. It was a horror to gaze upon 
his face as he stood in the dock, convulsively clutching 
the rails. 

For eight days had he so stood, execrated and con- 
demned by all. For eight days he had endured the 
anguish of a thousand deaths, of a myriad agonising 
fears. His soul had been harrowed by the most awful 
visions — visions of which none but himself had any con- 
ception. In his cell with the gaolers watching his every 
movement ; in the court with the glare of daylight upon 
him; in the dusky corridors he traversed morning and 
evening he saw the phantom of the girl with whose mur- 
der he was charged, and by her side the phantom of him- 
self standing on the threshold of a future in which there 
was no mercy or pity. 

No communication passed between him and the lawyer 
who was fighting for him ; not once did the Advocate turn 
to the prisoner or address a word to him ; it was as though 
he were battling for a victory in which Gautran was in 
no wise concerned. But if indeed he desired to win, he 
adopted the strangest tactics to accomplish hi.s desire. 
Not a question he asked the witnesses, not an observation 
he made to the judge, but tended to fix more surely the 
prisoner’s degradation, and gradually there stole into 
Gautran’s heart a deadly hatred and animosity against his 
defender. 


72 


THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 

“ He defends me to ruin me,” this was Gautran’s 
thought ; “ he is seeking to destroy me, body and soul.” 

His own replies to the questions put to him by the judge 
were sufficient to convict him. He equivocated and lied 
in the most barefaced manner, and when he was exposed 
and reproved, evinced no shame — preserving either a 
dogged silence, or obstinately exclaiming that the whole 
world was leagued against him. Apart from the question 
whether he was lying or speaking the truth, there was a 
certain consistency in his method which would have been 
of service to him had his cause been good. This was 
especially noticeable when he was being interrogated with 
respect to his relations with the murdered girl. 

“ You insist,” said the judge, “ that Madeline accepted 
you as her lover ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Gautran, “ I insist upon it.” 

“ Evidence will be brought forward to prove that it was 
not so. What, then, will you answer ? ” 

“ That whoever denies it is a liar.” 

“ And if a dozen or twenty deny it ? ” 

“ They lie, the lot of them.” 

“ What should make them speak falsely instead of 
truly ? ” 

“ Because they are all against me.” 

“ There is no other evidence except your bare state- 
ment that Madeline and you were affianced.” 

“ That is my misfortune. If she were alive she could 
speak for me.” 

“ It is a safe remark, the poor child being in her grave. 
It is the rule for young girls to love men whose appear- 
ance is not repulsive.” 

“ Is this,” cried Gautran, smiting his face with his fist, 
“ to stand as a witness against me, too ? ” 

“ No ; but a girl has generally a cause for falling in 
love. If the man be not attractive in appearance, it is 
almost certain he will possess some other quality to attract 
her. He may be clever, and this may win her.” 

“ I do not pretend to be cleveh” 

“ His manners may be engaging. His nature may be 
kind and affectionate, and she may have had proof of it.” 

“ My nature is kind and affectionate. It may have been 


THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 73 

that, if you are determined upon having a reason for her 
fondness for me.” 

“ She was fond of you ? ” 

“ Aye.” 

“ Did she tell you so, and when ? ” 

“ Always when we were alone.” 

“We cannot have Madeline’s evidence as to the feel- 
ings she entertained for you; but we can have the evi- 
dence of others who knew you both. Are you acquainted 
with Katherine Scherrer ? ” 

“ Not too well ; we were never very intimate.” 

“ She is a young woman a few years older than Made- 
line, and she warned Madeline against you. She herself 
had received instances of your brutality. Before you 
saw Madeline you made advances towards Katherine 
Scherrer.” 

“ False. She made advances towards me. She asked 
me to be her lover, and now she speaks against me out of 
revenge.” 

“ She has not spoken yet, but she will. Madeline told 
her that she trembled at the sight of you, and had en- 
treated you not to follow her; but that you would not be 
shaken off.” 

“ It is my way ; I will never be baulked.” 

“It is true, therefore; you paid no attention to this 
poor girl’s entreaties because it is your way not to allow 
yourself to be baulked.” 

“ I did not mean that ; I was thinking of other matters.” 

“ Katherine Scherrer has a mother.” 

“Yes; a woman of no account.” 

“ Some time ago this mother informed you, if you did 
not cease to pester Katherine with your insulting pro- 
posals, that she would have you beaten.” 

“ I should like to see the man who would have at- 
temped it.” 

“ That is savagely spoken for one whose nature is kind 
and affectionate.” 

“May not a man defend himself? I don’t say I am 
kind and affectionate to men ; but I am to women.” 

“ The murdered girl found you so. Hearing from her 
daughter that Madeline was frightened of you, and did 


74 THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 

not wish you to follow her, Katherine’s mother desired 
you to let the girl alone.” 

“ She lies.” 

“ They all lie who utter a word against you ? ” 

“ Every one of them.” 

“ You never courted Katherine Scherrer ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Her mother never spoke to you about either her 
daughter or Madeline ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“Do you know the Widow Joseph?” 

“ No.” 

“ Madeline lodged in her house.” 

“ What is that to me ? ” 

“ Did she never speak to you concerning Madeline ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Attend. Four nights before Madeline met her death 
you were seen prowling outside Widow Joseph’s house.” 

“ I was not there.” 

“ The Widow Joseph came out and asked you what you 
wanted.” 

“ She did not.” 

“ You said you must see Madeline. The Widow Joseph 
went into the house, and returned with the message that 
Madeline would not see you. Upon that you tried to force 
your way into the house, and struck the woman because 
she prevented you. Madeline came down, alarmed at the 
sounds of the struggle, and begged you to go away, and 
you said you would, now that you had seen her, as you 
had made up your mind to. What have you to say to 
this?” 

“ A batch of lies. Twenty women could not have pre- 
vented me getting into the house.” 

“ You think yourself a match for twenty women? ” 1 

“ Aye.” 

“ And for as many men ? ” 

“ For one man, whoever he may be. Give me the 
chance of proving it.” 

“ Do you know Heinrich Heitz ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ He is, like yourself, a woodcutter.” 


THE TRIAL OF GAUTRAN 


75 


“ There are thousands of woodcutters.” 

“ Did you and he not work together as partners ? ” 

“ We did not.” 

“ Were you not continually quarrelling, and did he not 
wish to break the partnership ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ In consequence of this, did you not threaten to murder 
him?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you not strike him with a weapon, and cut his 
forehead open ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ How many women have you loved ? ” 

“ One.” 

“ Her name?” 

“ Madeline.” 

“ You never loved another? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Have you been married ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Have you ever lived with a woman who should have 
been your wife ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Did you not continually beat this poor woman until 
her life became a burden to her, and she was compelled to 
fly from you to another part of the country ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Do you expect to be believed in the answers you have 
given ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ It is said that you possess great strength.” 

“ It has served me in good stead.” 

“ That you are a man of violent passions.” 

“ I have my feelings. I would never submit to be 
trampled on.” 

“You were always kind to Madeline?” 

“ Always.” 

“ On the night of her murder ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Witnesses will prove that you were heard to say, ‘ I 
will kill you ! I will kill you ! ’ Do you deny saying so ? ” 


76 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 


“ No.” 

“ How does that cruel threat accord with a mild and 
affectionate nature? ” 

“ I was asking her whether she had another lover, and 
I said if she had, and encouraged him, that I would kill 
her.” 


“ The handkerchief found round her neck was yours.” 

“ I gave it to her as a love-gift.” 

“ A terrible love-gift. It was not wound loosely round 
her neck ; it was tight, almost to strangulation.” 

“ She must have made it so in her struggles, or ” 

“ Or?” 

“ The man who killed her must have attempted to 
strangle her with it.” 

“ That is your explanation ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Your face is bathed in perspiration ; your eyes glare 
wildly.” 

“ Change places with me, and see how you would 
feel.” 


“ Such signs, then, are the signs of innocence? ” 
“What else should they be?” 

During this long examination, Gautran’s limbs trembled 
violently, and there passed over his face the most frightful 
expressions. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 


AMONG the first witnesses called was Heinrich 
Heitz, a wood-cutter, who had been for some time 
in partnership with Gautran, and of whom Gau- 
tran had denied any knowledge whatever. 

On his forehead was the red scar of a wound inflicted 
some time before. 

“ Look at the prisoner. Do you know him ? ” 

“ I have reason to.” 

“ His name?” 

“ Gautran.” 

“How did he get his living?” 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 77 

“ By wood-cutting.” 

“ You and he were comrades for a time?” 

“ We were.” 

“ For how long? ” 

“ For three years ; we were partners.” 

“ During the time you worked with him, did he know 
you as Heinrich Heitz ? ” 

“ By no other name. I never bore another.” 

“ Was the partnership an agreeable one? ” 

“Not to me; it was infernally disagreeable. I never 
want another partner like him.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because I don’t want another savage beast for a 
partner.” 

“ You did not get along well with him?” 

“ Quite the reverse.” 

“ For what reasons?” 

“ Well, for one, I am a hard-working man ; he is an 
indolent bully. The master he works for once does not 
want to employ him again. When we worked together on 
a task, the profits of which were to be equally divided be- 
tween us, he shirked his share of the work, and left me 
to do the lot.” 

“ Did you endeavour to separate from him ? ” 

“ I did ; and he swore he would murder me ; and once, 
when I was more than usually determined, he marked me 
on my forehead. You can see the scar; I shall never get 
rid of it.” 

“ Did he use a weapon against you ? ” 

“ Yes.; a knife.” 

“ His temper is ungovernable ? ” 

“ He has not the slightest control over it.” 

“ He is a man of great strength ? ” 

“ He is very powerful.” 

“ Possessed with an idea which he was determined to 
carry out, is it likely that anything would soften him ? ” 

“ Nothing could soften him.” 

“ How would opposition affect him ? ” 

“ It would infuriate him. I have seen him, when 
crossed, behave as if he were a mad tiger instead of a 
human being.” 


78 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 


“ At such times, would it be likely that he would show 
any coolness or cunning ? ” 

“ He would have no time to think ; he would be carried 
away by his passion.” 

“ You were acquainted with him when he was a lad?” 
“ I was.” 

“ Was he noted for his cruel disposition in his child- 
hood?” 

“ He was ; it was the common talk.” 

“ Did he take a pleasure in inflicting physical pain upon 
those weaker than himself ? ” 

“ He did.” 

“ And in prolonging that pain ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ In his paroxysms of fury would not an appeal to his 
humanity have a softening effect upon him ? ” 

“ He has no humanity.” 

“ You were acquainted with Madeline ? ” 

“ I was.” 

“ Was she an amiable girl ? ” 

“ Most amiable.” 

“ She was very gentle ? ” 

“ As gentle as a child.” 

“ But she was capable of being aroused ? ” 

“ Of course she was.” 

“ She had many admirers ? ” 

“ I have heard so.” 

“You yourself admired her?” 

“ I did.” 

“ You made love to her? ” 

“ I suppose I did.” 

“ Did she encourage you ? ” 

“ I cannot say she did.” 

“ Did you ever attempt to embrace her ? ” 

The witness did not reply to this question, and upon its 
being repeated, still preserved silence. Admonished by 
the judge, and ordered to reply, he said : 

“ Yes, I have attempted to embrace her.” 

“ On more than one occasion.” 

“ Only on one occasion.” 

“ Did she permit the embrace ? ” 


79 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 
“ No.” 

“ She resisted you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ There must have been a struggle. Did she strike 
you ? ” 

“ She scratched my face. ,, 

“ She resisted you successfully ? ” 

“ Yes." 

“ Gentle as she was, she possessed strength ? ” 

“ Oh yes, more than one would have supposed.” 

“ Strength which she would exert to protect herself 
from insult ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Her disposition was a happy one ? ” 

“ That was easy to see. She was always singing to her- 
self, and smiling.” 

“You believe she was fond of life?” 

“ Why yes — who is not ? ” 

“ And would not have welcomed a violent and sudden 
death?” 

“ Certainly not. What a question ! ” 

“ Threatened with such a fate, she would have re- 
sisted ? ” 

“ Aye, with all her strength. It would be but natural.” 
“ Knowing Madeline somewhat intimately, you must 
have known Pauline ? ” 

“ Yes, I knew her.” 

“ It is unfortunate and inexplicable that we cannot call 
her as a witness, and are ignorant of the reason why she 
left Madeline alone. Can you furnish any clue, even the 
slightest, which might enable us to find her ? ” 

“ I cannot ; I do not know where she has gone.” 

“ Were they sisters, or mother and daughter?” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Do you know where they came from ? ” 

“ I do not.” 

“ Reflect. During your intimacy, was any chance word 
or remark made by either of the women which, followed 
up, might furnish the information ? ” 

“ I can remember none. But something was said, a 
few days before Pauline left, which surprised me.” 


80 THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 

“ Relate it, and do not fear to weary the court. Omit 
nothing.” 

“ I made love to Madeline, as I have said, and she did 
not encourage me. Then, for perhaps a month or two, I 
said nothing more to her than good-morning or good-even- 
ing. But afterwards, when I was told that Gautran was 
following her up, I thought to myself, ‘ I am better than 
he ; why should I be discouraged because she said “ No ” 
to me once?’ Well, then it was that I mustered up 
courage to speak to Pauline, thinking to win her to my 
side. I did not, though. Pauline was angry and impa- 
tient with me, and as much as told me that when Madeline 
married it would be to a better man than I was. I was 
angry, also, because it seemed as if she looked down on 
me. ‘ You think she will marry a gentleman,’ said I. ‘ It 
might be so,’ she answered. ‘ A fine idea that,’ said I, 
‘ for a peasant. But perhaps she isn’t a peasant : perhaps 
she is a lady in disguise.’ I suppose I spoke scornfully, 
for Pauline fired up, and asked whether Madeline was 
not good enough, and pretty enough, and gentle enough 
for a lady; and said, too, that those who believed her to 
be a peasant might one day find out their mistake. And 
then all at once she stopped suddenly, with red fire in 
her face, and I saw she had said that which she had 
rather left unspoken.” 

This last piece of evidence supplied a new feature of 
interest in the case. It furnished a clue to a tempting 
mystery as to the social position of Pauline and Made- 
line; but it was a clue which could not be followed to a 
satisfactory result, although another unexpected revela- 
tion was made in the course of the trial which appeared 
to have some connection with it. Much of the evidence 
given by Heinrich Heitz was elicited by the Advocate — 
especially those particulars which related to Gautran’s 
strength and ferocity, and to Madeline’s love of life and 
the way in which she met an insult. It was not easy to see 
what good could be done for Gautran by the stress which 
the Advocate laid upon these points. 

Katherine Scherrer was called and examined. She tes- 
tified that Gautran had made advances towards her, and 
had pressed her to become his wife ; that she refused him. 


THE EVIDENCE OF WITNESSES 81 

and that he threatened her ; that as he persisted in follow- 
ing her, her mother had spoken to him, and had warned 
him, if he did not cease persecuting her daughter, that she 
would have him beaten. This evidence was corroborated 
by Katherine’s mother, who testified that she had cau- 
tioned Gautran not to persecute Madeline with his atten- 
tions and proposals. Madeline had expressed to both 
these women her abhorrence of Gautran and her fear of 
him, but nothing could induce him to relinquish his pur- 
suit of her. The only evidence elicited from these wit- 
nesses by the Advocate related to Gautran’s strength and 
ferocity. 

Following Katherine Scherrer and her mother came a 
witness whose appearance provoked murmurs of com- 
passion. It was a poor, wretched woman, half demented, 
who had lived with Gautran in another part of the country, 
and who had been so brutally treated by him that her 
reason had become impaired. If her appearance provoked 
compassion, the story of her wrongs, as it was skilfully 
drawn from her by kindly examination stirred the court 
into strong indignation, and threw a lurid light upon the 
character of the man arraigned at the bar of justice. In 
the presence of this poor creature the judge interrogated 
Gautran. 

“ You denied having ever lived with a woman who 
should have been your wife. Do you still deny it ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Shameless obstinacy ! Look at this poor woman, 
whom your cruelty has reduced to a state of imbecility. 
Do you not know her ? ” 

“ I know nothing of her.” 

“ You never lived with her ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ You will even go so far as to declare that you never 
saw her before to-day ? ” 

“ Yes ; I never saw her before to-day.” 

“ To question you farther would be useless. You have 
shown yourself in your true colours.” 

To which Gautran made answer : “ I can’t help my 

colours. They’re not of my choosing.” 

The Widow Joseph was next called. 


82 


THE WIDOW JOSEPH 


CHAPTER XV 

THE WIDOW JOSEPH GIVES EVIDENCE RESPECTING A MYS- 
TERIOUS VISITOR 

T HE appearance of this woman was looked forward 
to by the spectators with lively curiosity, and her 
evidence was listened to with deep attention. 

“ Your name is Joseph ? ” 

“ That was my husband’s first name. While he lived 
I was known as Mistress Joseph; since his death I have 
been called the Widow Joseph.” 

“ The poor child, Madeline, and her companion, Paul- 
ine, lived in your house ? ” 

“ Yes, from the first day they came into this part of the 
country. ‘ We have come a great distance,’ said Pauline 
to me, ‘ and want a room to sleep in.’ I showed her the 
room, and said it would be twelve francs a month. She 
paid me twelve francs, and remained with me till she left 
to go on a journey.” 

“ Did you ask her where she came from? ” 

“ Yes ; and she answered that it was of no conse- 
quence.” 

“ Did she pay the rent regularly? ” 

“ Yes; and always without being asked for it.” 

“ Did she tell you she was poor ? ” 

“ She said she had but little money.” 

“ Did they have any settled plan of gaining a liveli- 
hood?” 

“ I do not think they had at first. Pauline asked me 
whether I thought it likely they could earn a living by 
selling flowers. I looked at Madeline, and said that I 
thought they were certain to do well.” 

“You looked at Madeline. Why?” 

“ She was a very pretty girl.” 

“ And you thought, because she was very pretty, that 
she would have a greater chance of disposing of her 
flowers.” 

“ Yes. Gentlemen like to buy of pretty girls.” 

“ That is not said to Madeline’s disparagement? ” 


THE WIDOW JOSEPH 83 

“ No. Madeline was a good girl. She was full of 
gaiety, but it was innocent gaiety.” 

“What were your impressions of them? As to their 
social position? Did you believe them to be humbly 
born ? ” 

“ Pauline certainly ; she was a peasant the same as 
myself. But there was somethig superior about Made- 
line which puzzled me.” 

“ How? In what way?” 

“ It was only an impression. Yet there were signs. 
Pauline’s hands were hard and coarse ; and from remarks 
she made from time to time I knew that she was peasant- 
born. Madeline’s hands were soft and delicate, and she 
had not been accustomed to toil, which all peasants are, 
from their infancy almost.” 

“ From this do you infer that they were not related to 
each other ? ” 

“ I am sure they were related to each other. Perhaps 
few had the opportunities of judging as well as I could. 
When they were in a quiet mood I have seen expressions 
upon their faces so exactly alike as to leave no doubt that 
they were closely related.” 

“ Sisters?” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Or mother and daughter ? ” 

“ I wish to tell everything I know, but to say nothing 
that might be turned into a reproach against them.” 

“ We have every confidence in you. Judgment can be 
formed from the bearing of persons towards each other. 
Pauline loved Madeline ? ” 

“ Devotedly.” 

“ There is a distinctive quality in the attachment of a 
loving mother for her child which can scarcely be mis- 
taken ; it is far different, in certain visible manifesta- 
tions — especially on occasions where there is any slight 
disagreement — between sisters. Distinctive, also, is the 
tenderness which accompanies the exercise of a mother’s 
authority. Bearing this in mind, and recalling to the 
best of your ability those particulars of their intercourse 
which came within your cognisance, which hypothesis 
would you be the more ready to believe — that they were 
sisters or mother and child ? ” 


84 


THE WIDOW JOSEPH 


“ That they were mother and child.” 

“ We recognise your anxiety to assist us. Pauline’s 
hands, you say, were coarse, while Madeline’s were soft 
and delicate. Ordinarily, a peasant woman brings up her 
child as a peasant, with no false notions ; in this instance, 
however, Pauline brought Madeline up with some idea 
that the young girl was superior to her own station in life. 
Else why the unusual care of the child ? Supposing this 
line of argument to be correct, it appears not to be likely 
that the attentions of a man like Gautran would be en- 
couraged.” 

“ They were not encouraged.” 

“ Do you know that they were not encouraged from 
statements made to you by Pauline and Madeline ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then Gautran’s declaration that he was Madeline’s 
accepted lover is false ? ” 

“ Quite false.” 

“ He speaks falsely when he says that Madeline prom- 
ised to marry him ? ” 

“ It is impossible.” 

“ Four nights before Madeline met her death, was 
Gautran outside your house ? ” 

“ Yes ; he was prowling about there with his evil face, 
for a long time.” 

“ Did you go to him, and ask him what he wanted ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did he tell you that he must see Madeline ? ” 

“ Yes, and I went into the house, and informed the girl. 
She said she would not see him, and I went down to 
Gautran and told him so. He then tried to force himself 
into the house, and I stood in his way. He struck me, and 
Madeline, frightened by my cries, ran to the door, and 
begged him to go away.” 

“ It is a fact that he was often seen in Madeline’s 
company ? ” 

“ Yes ; do what they would, they could not get rid of 
him; and they were frightened, if they angered him too 
much, that he would commit an act of violence.” 

“ As he did? ” 

“ As he did. It is written on Madeline’s grave.” 


85 


THE WIDOW JOSEPH 

“ Had the poor girl any other lovers ? ” 

“ None that I should call lovers. But she was greatly 
admired/’ 

“ Was any one of these lovers especially favoured? ” 

“ Not that I knew of.” 

“ Did any of them visit the house ? ” 

“No — but may I speak?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ It was not what I should call a visit. A gentleman 
came once to the door, and before I could get there, 
Pauline was with him. All that I heard was this : ‘ It is 
useless,’ Pauline said to him ; ‘ I will not allow you to see 
her, and if you persecute us with your attentions I will 
appeal for help to those who will teach you a lesson.’ 
* What is your objection to me?’ he asked, and he was 
smiling all the time he spoke. ‘ Am I not a gentleman ? ’ 
‘ Yes,’ she answered ; 4 and it is because of that, that I will 
not permit you to address her. Gentlemen ! I have had 
enough of gentlemen ! ’ 'You are a foolish woman,’ he 
said, and he went away. That is all, and that is the only 
time — except when I saw Pauline in conversation with a 
man. He might have been a gentleman, but his clothes 
were not the clothes of one ; neither were they the clothes 
of a peasant. They were conversing at a little distance 
from the house. I did not hear what they said, not a 
word, and half an hour afterwards Pauline came home. 
There was a look on her face such as I had never observed 
— a look of triumph and doubt. But she made no re- 
mark to me, nor I to her.” 

“ Where was Madeline at this time? ” 

“ In the house.” 

“ Did you see this man again ? ” 

“ A second time, two evenings after. A third time, 
within the same week. He and Pauline spoke together 
very earnestly, and when anyone approached them always 
moved out of hearing. During the second week he came 
to the house, and inquired for Pauline. She ran down- 
stairs and accompanied him into the open road. This 
occurred to my knowledge five or six times, until Pauline 
said to me, ‘ To-morrow I am going on a journey. Before 
long I may be able to reward you well for the kindness 


86 CONCLUSION OF THE PROSECUTION 

you have shown us/ The following day she left, and I 
have not seen her since.” 

“ Did she say how long she would be likely to be 
away ? ” 

“ I understood not longer than three weeks.” 

“ That time has passed, and still she does not appear. 
Since she left, have you seen the man who was so fre- 
quently with her ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ He has not been to the house to make inquiries ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Is it not possible that he may have been Pauline’s 
lover?” 

“ There was nothing of the lover in his manner towards 
her.” 

“ There was, however, some secret between them ? ” 

“ Evidently.” 

“And Madeline — was she acquainted with it?” 

“ It is impossible to say.” 

“ You have no reason to suppose, when Pauline went 
away, that she had no intention of returning?” 

“ I am positive she intended to return.” 

“ And with good news, for she promised to reward you 
for your kindness ? ” 

“ Yes, she did so.” 

“ Is it not probable that she, also, may have met with 
foul play ? ” 

“ It is probable ; but Heaven alone knows ! ” 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE CONCLUSION OF THE PROSECUTION 

IT length the case for the prosecution was con- 
IJL eluded, with an expression of regret on the part 
1 1. of counsel at the absence of Pauline, who might 
have been able to supply additional evidence, if any were 
needed, of the guilt of the prisoner. 

“ Every effort has been made,” said counsel, “ to trace 
and produce this woman, but when she parted from the 
murdered girl no person knew whither she was directing 


CONCLUSION OF THE PROSECUTION 87 

her steps; even the Widow Joseph, the one living person 
besides the mysterious male visitor who was in frequent 
consultation with her, can furnish us with no clue. The 
victim of this foul and horrible crime could most likely 
have told us, but her lips are sealed by the murderer’s 
hand, the murderous wretch who stands before you. 

“ It has been suggested that Pauline has met with foul 
play. It may be so; otherwise, it is humanly impossible 
to divine the cause that could keep her from this trial. 

“ Neither have we been able to trace the man who was 
in her confidence, and between whom and herself a secret 
of a strange nature existed. 

“ In my own mind I do not doubt that this secret re- 
lated to Madeline, but whether it did do so or not cannot 
affect the issue of this trial; neither can the absence of 
Pauline and her mysterious friend affect it. The proofs 
of the cruel, ruthless murder are complete and irrefrag- 
able, and nothing is wanting, not a link, in the chain of 
evidence to enable you to return a verdict which will de- 
prive of the opportunity of committing further crime a 
wretch as infamous as ever walked the earth. He declares 
his innocence; if the value of that declaration is to be 
gauged by the tissue of falsehoods he has uttered, by 
his shameless effrontery and denials, by his revolting reve- 
lations of the degradation of his nature, he stands self- 
convicted. 

“ But it needs not that ; had he not spoken, the issue 
would be the same; for painful and shocking as is the 
spectacle, you have but to glance at him to assure yourself 
of his guilt. If that is not sufficient to move you unhesi- 
tatingly to your duty, cast him from your thoughts and 
weigh only the evidence of truth which has been laid un- 
folded to you. 

“ As I speak, a picture of that terrible night, in the 
darkness of which the fearful deed was committed, rises 
before me. 

“ I see the river’s bank in a mist of shadows ; I see two 
forms moving onward, one a monster in human shape, the 
other that of a child who had never wronged a fellow crea- 
ture, a child whose spirit was joyous and whose amiable 
disposition won every heart. 


88 CONCLUSION OF THE PROSECUTION 

“ It is not with her willing consent that this monster is 
in her company. He has followed her stealthily until he 
finds an opportunity to be alone with her, at a time when 
she is least likely to have friends near her, and in a place 
where she is entirely at his mercy. He forces his atten- 
tions upon her ; she repulses him. She turns towards her 
home ; he thrusts her roughly back. Enraged at her ob- 
stinacy, he threatens to kill her ; his threats are heard by 
persons returning home along the river’s bank, and, until 
the sound of their footsteps has died away and they are 
out of hearing, he keeps his victim silent by force. 

“ Being alone with her once more, he renews his in- 
famous suit. She still repulses him, and then commences 
a struggle which must have made the angels weep to 
witness. 

“ In vain his victim pleads, in vain she struggles ; she 
clings to him and begs for her life in tones that might 
melt the stoniest heart ; but this demon has no heart. He 
winds his handkerchief round her neck, he beats and 
tears her, as is proved by the bruises on her poor body. 
The frightful struggle ends, and the deed is accomplished 
which condemns the wretch to life-long torture in this 
world and to perdition in the next. 

“ Do not lose sight of this picture and of the evidence 
which establishes it; and let me warn you not to be di- 
verted by sophistry or specious reasoning from the duty 
which you are here to perform. 

“ A most vile and horrible crime has been committed ; 
the life of a child has been cruelly, remorselessly, wickedly 
sacrificed; her blood calls for justice on her murderer; 
and upon you rests the solemn responsibility of not per- 
mitting the escape of a wretch whose guilt has been proven 
by evidence so convincing as to leave no room for doubt 
in the mind of any human being who reasons in accord- 
ance with facts. 

“ I cannot refrain from impressing upon you the stern 
necessity of allowing no other considerations than those 
supplied by a calm judgment to guide you in the delivery 
of your verdict. I should be wanting in my duty if I did 
not warn you that there have been cases in which the 
guilty have unfortunately escaped by the raising of side 


CONCLUSION OF THE PROSECUTION 89 

issues which had but the remotest bearing upon the crimes 
of which they stood accused. It is not by specious logic 
that a guilty man can be proved innocent. Innocence can 
only be established by facts, and the facts laid before you 
are fatal in the conclusion to be deduced from them. 
Bear these facts in mind, and do not allow your judgment 
to be clouded even by the highest triumphs of eloquence. 
I know of no greater reproach from which men of sensi- 
bility can suffer than that which proceeds from the con- 
sciousness that, in an unguarded moment, they have al- 
lowed themselves to be turned aside from the per- 
formance of a solemn duty. May you have no cause for 
such a reproach ! May you have no cause to lament that 
you have allowed your judgment to be warped by a dis- 
play of passionate and fevered oratory! Let a sense of 
justice alone be your guide. Justice we all desire, nothing 
more and nothing less. The law demands it of you; so- 
ciety demands it of you. The safety of your fellow citi- 
zens, the honour of young girls, of your sisters, your 
daughters, and others dear to you, depend upon your 
verdict. For if wretches like the prisoner are permitted 
to walk in our midst, to pursue their savage courses, to 
live their evil lives, unchecked, life and honour are in 
fatal peril. The duty you have to perform is a sacred 
duty — see that you perform it righteously and conscien- 
tiously, and bear in mind that the eyes of the Eternal are 
upon you.” 

This appeal, delivered with intense earnestness, pro- 
duced a profound impression. In the faces of the jury 
was written the fate of Gautran. They looked at each 
other with stern resolution. Under these circumstances, 
when the result of the trial appeared to be a foregone con- 
clusion, it might have been expected, the climax of in- 
terest having apparently been reached, that the rising of 
the Advocate to speak for the defence would have at- 
tracted but slight attention. It was not so. At that mo- 
ment the excitement reached a painful pitch, and every 
person in the court, with the exception of the jury and 
the judges, leant forward with eager and absorbed ex- 
pectation. 


90 


THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE ADVOCATE S DEFENCE — THE VERDICT 

H E spoke in a calm and passionless voice, the clear 
tones of which had an effect resembling that of a 
current of cpld air through an over-heated atmos- 
phere. The audience had been led to expect a display of 
fevered and passionate oratory; but neither in the Ad- 
vocate’s speech nor in his manner of delivering it was 
there any fire or passion ; it was chiefly remarkable for 
earnestness and simplicity. 

His first words were a panegyric of justice, the right of 
dispensing which had been placed in mortal hands by a 
Supreme Power which watched its dispensation with a 
jealous eye. He claimed for himself that the leading 
principle of his life, not only in his judicial, but in his pri- 
vate career, had been a desire for justice, in small matters 
as well as in great, for the lowliest equally with the lofti- 
est of human beings. Before the bar of justice, prince 
and peasant, the most ignorant and the most highly cul- 
tured, the meanest and the most noble in form and fea- 
ture, were equal. They had been told that justice was 
demanded from them by law and by society. He would 
supply a strange omission in this appeal, and he would 
tell them that, primarily and before every other consider- 
ation, the prisoner it was who demanded justice from 
them. 

“ That an innocent girl has been done to death,” said 
the Advocate, “ is most unfortunately true, and as true 
that a man who inspires horror is charged with her mur- 
der. You have been told that you have but to glance at 
him to assure yourself of his guilt. These are lamentable 
words to be used in an argument of accusation. The facts 
that the victim was of attractive, and that the accused is 
of repulsive appearance, should not weigh with you, even 
by a hair’s weight, to the prejudice of the prisoner. If it 
does, I call upon you to remember that justice is blind to 
external impressions. And moreover, if in your minds 
you harbour a feeling such as exists outside this court 


THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 91 

against the degraded creature who stands before you, I 
charge you to dismiss it. 

“ All the evidence presented to you which bears directly 
upon the crime is circumstantial. A murder has been com- 
mitted — no person saw it committed. The last person 
proved to have been in the murdered girl’s company, is 
Gautran, her lover, as he declares himself to have 
been. 

“ And here I would say that I do not expect you to place 
the slightest credence upon the statements of this man. 
His unblushing, astonishing falsehoods prove that in him 
the moral sense is deadened, if indeed it ever existed. But 
his own statement that, after the manner of his brutal 
nature, he loved the girl, may be accepted as probable. It 
has been sufficiently proved that the girl had other lovers, 
who were passionately enamoured of her. She was left 
to herself, deprived of the protection and counsel of a 
devoted woman, who, unhappily, was absent at the fatal 
crisis in her life. She was easily persuaded and easily led. 
Who can divine by what influences she was surrounded, 
by what temptations she was beset, temptations and in- 
fluences which may have brought upon her an untimely 
death ? 

“ Gautran was hear to say, 4 1 will kill you — I will kill 
you ! ’ He had threatened her before, and she lived to 
speak of it to her companions, and to permit him, without 
break or interruption in their intimacy, to continue to as- 
sociate with her. What more probable than that this was 
one of his usual threats in his moments of passion, when 
he jealously believed that a rival was endeavouring to sup- 
plant him in her affections ? 

“ The handkerchief found about her neck belonged to 
Gautran. The gift of a handkerchief among the lower 
classes is not uncommon, and it is frequently worn round 
the neck. Easy, then, for any murderer to pull it tight 
during the commission of the crime. But apart from 
this, the handkerchief does not fix the crime of murder 
upon Gautran or any other accused, for you have had it 
proved that the girl did not die by strangulation, but by 
drowning. These are bare facts, and I present them to 
you in bare form, without needless comment. I do not 


92 THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 

base my defence upon them, but upon what I am now 
about to say. 

“If in a case of circumstantial evidence there is reason- 
able cause to believe that the evidence furnished is of in- 
sufficient weight to convict; and if on the other side, on 
the side of the accused, evidence is adduced which di- 
rectly proves, according to the best judgment we are en- 
abled to form of human action in supreme moments — as 
to the course it would take and the manner in which it 
would be displayed — that it is almost beyond the bounds 
of possibility and nature that the person can have com- 
mitted the deed, you have no option, unless you your- 
selves are bent upon judicial murder, than to acquit that 
person, however vile his character may be, however de- 
graded his career and antecedents. It is evidence of this 
description which I intend to submit to you at the con- 
clusion of my remarks. 

“ The character of Gautran has been exposed and laid 
bare in all its vileness ; the minuteness of the evidence is 
surprising; not the smallest detail has been overlooked 
or omitted to complete the picture of a ferocious, igno- 
rant, and infamous being. Guilty, he deserves no mercy ; 
innocent, he is not to be condemned because he is vile. 

“ In the world’s history there are records of countries 
and times in which it was the brutal fashion to bring four- 
footed animals to the bar of justice, there solemnly to try 
them for witchcraft and evil deeds ; and you will find upon 
examination of those records of man’s incredible folly and 
ignorance, that occasionally even these beasts of the 
earth — pigs and such-like — have been declared innocent 
of the crimes of which they have been charged. I ask no 
more for Gautran than the principle involved in these 
trials. Judge him, if you will, as you would an animal, but 
judge him in accordance with the principles of justice, 
which neither extenuates nor maliciously and unreason- 
ably condemns. 

“ The single accusation of the murder of Madeline, a 
flower-girl, is the point to be determined, and you must 
not travel beyond it to other crimes and other misdeeds of 
which Gautran may have been guilty. 

“ It has been proved that the prisoner is possessed of 


THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 93 

great strength, that he is violent in his actions, uncon- 
trollable in his passions, and fond of inflicting pain and 
prolonging it. He has not a redeeming feature in his 
coarse, animal nature. Thwarted, he makes the person 
who thwarts him suffer without mercy. An appeal to his 
humanity would be useless — he has no humanity; when 
crossed, he has been seen to behave like a wild beast. All 
this is in evidence, and has been strongly dwelt upon as 
proof of guilt. Most important is this evidence, and I 
charge you not for one moment to lose sight of it. 

“ I come now to the depiction of the murdered girl, as 
it has been presented to you. Pretty, admired, gentle in 
her manners, and poor. Although the fact of a person 
being poor is no proof of morality, we may accept it in 
this instance as a proof of the girl’s virtue. She was fond 
of life : her disposition was a happy one ; she was in the 
habit of singing to herself. 

“ Thus we have the presentment of a young girl whose 
nature was joyous, and to whom life was sweet. 

“ Another important piece of evidence must be borne in 
mind. She possessed strength, greater strength than 
would have been supposed in a form so slight. This 
strength she would use to protect herself from injury : it 
has been proved that she used it successfully to protect 
herself from insult. In the whole of this case nothing 
has been more forcibly insisted upon than that she re- 
sisted her murder, and that there was a long and horrible 
struggle in which she received many injuries, wounds, 
bruises, and scratches, and in which her clothes were rent 
and torn. 

“ This struggle, in the natural order of things, could 
not have been a silent one ; accompanying the conflict there 
must have been outcries, frenzied appeals for mercy, 
screams of terror and anguish. No witness has been 
called who heard such sounds, and therefore it must be a 
fact that the murder must have been committed some 
time after Gautran’s threat, ‘ I will kill you, I will kill 
you ! ’ was heard by persons who passed along the bank 
of the river in the darkness of that fatal night. Time 
enough for Gautran to have left her; time enough for 
another — lover or stranger — to meet her ; time enough for 


94 THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 

murder by another hand than that of the prisoner who 
stands charged with the commission of the crime. 

“ I assert, with all the force of my experience of 
human nature, that it is impossible that Gautran could 
have committed the deed. There was a long and terrible 
struggle — a struggle in which the murdered girl’s clothes 
were torn, in which her face, her hands, her arms, her 
neck, her sides were bruised and wounded in a hundred 
cruel ways. Can you for one moment entertain the belief 
that, in this desperate fight in which two persons were 
engaged, only one should bear the marks of a contest so 
horrible? If you bring yourselves to this belief it must 
be by the aid of prejudice, not of reason. Attend to 
what follows. 

“ On the very morning after the murder, within four 
hours of the body being discovered in the river, Gautran 
was arrested. He wore the same clothes he had worn for 
months past, the only clothes he possessed. In these 
clothes there was not a rent or tear, nor any indication of 
a recent rent having been mended. How, then, could this 
man have been engaged in a violent and prolonged hand- 
to-hand conflict? It is manifestly impossible, opposed to 
all reasonable conjecture, that his garments could have 
escaped some injury, however slight, at the hands of a 
girl to whom life was very sweet, who was strong and 
capable of resistance, and who saw before her the shadow 
of an awful fate. 

“ Picture to yourselves this struggle already so vividly 
painted, so graphically portrayed. The unhappy girl 
clung to her destroyer, she clutched his dress, his hands, 
his body in her wild despair — a despair which inspired her 
with strength beyond her ordinary capacity. And of still 
greater weight is the fact that there was not to be found 
on any part of Gautran’s body a scratch, a wound, or a 
bruise of any description. 

“ What, then, becomes of the evidence of a terrible life 
and death struggle in which it is said he was engaged? 
Upon this point alone the entire theory of the prosecu- 
tion breaks down. The absence from Gautran’s clothes 
and person of any mark or identification of a physical con- 
test is the strongest testimony of his innocence of this 


THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 95 

ruthless, diabolical crime; and, wretched and degraded as 
is the spectacle he presents, justice demands from you his 
acquittal. 

“ Still one other proof of his innocence remains to be 
spoken of ; I will touch upon it lightly, but it bears a very 
strange aspect, as though the prosecution were fearful 
that its introduction would fatally injure their case. 

“ When Gautran was searched a knife was found upon 
him — the knife, without doubt, with which he inflicted 
upon the face of a comrade a wound which he will bear to 
the grave. Throughout the whole of the evidence for the 
prosecution I waited and looked for the production of 
that knife ; I expected to see upon it a blood proof of guilt. 
But it was not produced ; no mention has been made of it. 
Why ? Because there is upon its blade no mark of blood. 

“ Do you believe that a ruffian like Gautran would 
have refrained from using his knife upon the body of his 
victim, to shorten the terrible struggle? Even in light 
quarrels men in his condition of life threaten freely with 
their knives, and use them recklessly. To suppose that 
with so swift and sure a means at hand to put an end to 
the horrible affair, Gautran, in the heat and fury of the 
time, refrained from availing himself of it, is to suppose 
a thing contrary and opposed to reason. 

“ Remember the answer given by one of the witnesses 
who knows the nature of the man well, when I asked him 
whether in his passionate moods Gautran would be likely 
to show coolness or cunning. ‘ He would have no time 
to think ; he would be carried away by his passion.’ His is 
the nature of a brute, governed by brute laws. You are 
here to try, not the prisoner’s general character, not his 
repulsive appearance, not his brutish nature, but a charge 
of murder of which he is accused, and of which, in the 
clear light of human motive and action, it is impossible 
he can be guilty.” 

The Advocate’s speech, *of which this is but a brief and 
imperfect summary, occupied seven hours, and was de- 
livered throughout with a cold impressive earnestness and 
with an absence of passion which gradually and effectually 
turned the current which had set so fatally against the 
prisoner. The disgust and abhorrence he inspired were in 


96 


THE ADVOCATE’S DEFENCE 


no wise modified, but the Advocate had instilled into the 
minds of his' auditors the strongest doubts of Gautran’s 
guilt. 

Two witnesses were called, one a surgeon of eminence, 
the other a nurse in an hospital. They deposed that there 
were no marks of an encounter upon the prisoner’s person, 
that upon his skin was no abrasion, that his clothes ex- 
hibited no traces of recent tear or repair, and that it was 
scarcely possible he could have been engaged in a violent 
personal struggle. 

Upon the conclusion of this evidence, which cross-exam- 
ination did not shake, the jury asked that Gautran should 
be examined by independent experts. This was done by 
thoroughly qualified men, whose evidence strengthened 
that of the witnesses for the defence. The jury asked, 
also, that the knife found upon Gautran should be pro- 
duced. It was brought into court, and carefully exam- 
ined, and it was found that its blade was entirely free from 
blood-stain. 

The jury, astounded at the turn the affair had taken, 
listened attentively to the speech of the judge, who dwelt 
with great care upon every feature in the case. The court 
sat late to give its decision, and when the verdict was pro- 
nounced, Gautran was a free man. 

Free, to enjoy the sunlight, and the seasons as they 
passed ; free, to continue his life of crime and shame : free, 
to murder again! 


LETTER FROM JOHN VANBRUGH 97 


BOOK II.— THE CONFESSION. 

! 


CHAPTER I 

A LETTER FROM JOHN VANBRUGH 

F OR a little while Gautran scarcely comprehended 
that he was at liberty to wander forth. He had so 
completely given himself up as lost that he was 
stupefied by the announcement that his liberty was re- 
stored to him. He gazed vacantly before him, and the 
announcement had to be twice repeated before he arrived 
at an understanding of its purport; then his attitude 
changed. A spasm of joy passed into his face, followed 
immediately by a spasm of fear ; those who observed him 
would indeed have been amazed had they known what 
was passing through his mind. 

“Free, am I?” he asked. 

“ You have been told so twice,” a warder answered. 
“ It astonishes you. Well, you are not the only one.” 

As the warders fell from his side he watched them 
warily, fearing they were setting a trap which might prove 
his destruction. 

From where he stood he could not see the Advocate, 
who was preparing to depart. Distasteful as the verdict 
was to every person in court, with the exception of Gau- 
tran and his counsel, those members of the legal profes- 
sion who had not taken an active part in the trial were 
filled with professional admiration at the skill the Advo- 
cate had displayed. An eminent member of the bar re- 
marked to him : 

“ It is a veritable triumph, the greatest and most sur- 
prising I have ever witnessed. None but yourself could 
have accomplished it. Yet I cannot believe in the man’s 
innocence/’ 


98 LETTER FROM JOHN VANBRUGH 

This lawyer held too high and honourable a position for 
the Advocate to remain silent. 

“ The man is innocent,” he said. 

“ You know him to be so? ” 

“ I know him to be so. I stake my reputation upon 
it.” 

“ You almost convince me. It would be fatal to any 
reputation were Gautran, after what has passed, to be 
proved guilty. But that, of course, is impossible.” 

“ Quite impossible,” said the Advocate somewhat 
haughtily. 

“ Exactly so. There can be no room for doubt, after 
your statement that you know the man to be inno- 
cent.” 

With no wish to continue the conversation, the Advo- 
cate turned to leave the court when an officer presented 
himself. 

“ He wishes to speak to you, sir.” 

“ He ! Who ? ” asked the Advocate. He was im- 
patient to be gone, his interest at the trial being at an 
end. The victory was gained; there was nothing more 
to be done. 

“ The prisoner, sir. He desired me to tell you.” 

“ The prisoner!” said the Advocate. “You forget. 
The man is free.” 

He walked towards Gautran, and for the first time 
during the long days of the trial gazed directly in his 
client’s face. The magnetism in the Advocate’s eyes ar- 
rested Gautran’s speech. His own dilated, and he ap- 
peared to forget what he had intended to say. They 
looked at each other in silence for a few moments, the 
expression on the face of the Advocate cold, keen, and 
searching, that on the face of Gautran as of a man en- 
tranced ; and then the Advocate turned sternly away, 
without a word having been spoken between them. When 
Gautran looked again for his defender he was gone. 

Gautran still lingered; the court was nearly empty. 

“ Be off,” said the warder, who had been his chief at- 
tendant in his cell ; “ we have done with you for the 
present.” 

But Gautran made no effort to leave. The warder laid 


LETTER TROM JOHN VANBRUGH 99 

his hand upon the ruffian’s shoulder, with the intention of 
expelling him from the court. 

Gautran shook him off with the snarl of a wild beast. 

“ Touch me again,” he cried, “ and I’ll strangle you ! I 
can do it easily enough — two of you at a time ! ” 

And, indeed, so ferocious was his manner that it seemed 
as if he were disposed to carry his threat into execution. 

“ Women are more in your way,” said the warder taunt- 
ingly. “ Look you, Gautran ; if Madeline had been my 
daughter, your life would not be worth an hour’s pur- 
chase, despite the verdict gained by your clever Advocate.” 

“ You would not dare to say that to me if you and I 
were alone,” retorted Gautran, scowling at the sullen 
faces of the officers about him. 

“ Away with you ! ” exclaimed the warder, “ at once, 
or we will throw you into the streets ! ” 

“ I will go when I get my property.” 

“ What property.? ” 

“ The knife you took from me when you dragged me to 
prison. I don’t move without it.” 

They deemed it best to comply with this demand, the 
right being on his side, and his knife was restored to him. 
It was an old knife, with a keen blade and a stout handle, 
and it opened and closed with a* sharp click. Gautran 
tried it three or four times with savage satisfaction and 
then, with another interchange of threatening glances, he 
slunk from the court. 

The Advocate’s carriage was at the door, ready to con- 
vey him to Christian Aimer’s villa. But after his long 
confinement in the close court, he felt the need of physi- 
cal exercise, and he dismissed his coachman, saying he 
intended to walk home. As the carriage drove off, a 
person plucked him by the sleeve, and pressed a letter into 
his hand. It was dusk, and the Advocate, although he 
looked quickly around, could not discover the giver. His 
sight was short and strong, and standing beneath the 
light of a street-lamp he opened and read the letter. 

“ Old Friend, 

“ It will doubtless surprise you to see my handwriting, 
it is so long since we met. The sight of it may displease 


L.ofC. 


100 


A STARTLING INTERRUPTION 


you, but that is of small consequence to me. When a man 
is in a desperate strait, he is occasionally driven to desper- 
ate courses. When needs must, as you are aware, the 
devil drives. I have been but an hour in Geneva, and I 
have heard of your victory; I congratulate you upon it. 
I must see you — soon. I know the House of White Shad- 
ows in the pretty valley yonder. At a short distance from 
the gates — but far enough off, and so situated as to en- 
able a man to hide with safety if he desires — is a hill upon 
which I will wait for your signal to come to you, which 
shall be the waving of a white handkerchief from your 
study window. At midnight and alone will be best. You 
see how ready I am to oblige you. I shall wait till sunrise 
for the signal. If you are too busy to-night, let it be to- 
morrow night, or the next, or any night this week. 

“ I am, as ever, your friend, 

“ John Vanbrugh.” 

The Advocate placed the letter in his pocket, and mur- 
mured as he walked through the streets of Geneva : 

“ John Vanbrugh ! Has he risen from his grave ? He 
would see me at midnight and alone ! He must be mad, 
or drunk, to make such a request. He may keep his 
vigil, undisturbed. Of such a friendship there can be 
no renewal. The gulf that separates us is too wide to be 
bridged over by sentimental memories. John Vanbrugh, 
the vagabond ! I can imagine him, and the depth to which 
he has sunk. Every man must bear the consequences of 
his actions. Let him bear his, and make the best, or the 
worst, of them.” 


CHAPTER II 

A STARTLING INTERRUPTION 

T HE news of the acquittal of Gautran spread swiftly 
through the town, and the people gathered in 
front of the cafes and lingered in the streets, to 
gaze upon the celebrated Advocate who had worked the 
marvel. 

“ He has a face like the Sphynx,” said one. 


A STARTLING INTERRUPTION 101 

“ With just as much feeling,” said another. 

“ Do you believe Gautran was innocent ? ” 

“ Not I — though he made it appear so.” 

“ Neither do I believe it, but I confess I am puzzled.” 

“ If Gautran did not murder the girl, who did ? ” asked 
one, a waverer, who formed an exception to the general 
rule. 

“ That is for the law to find out.” 

“ It was found out, and the murderer has been set 
loose. We shall have to take care of ourselves on dark 
nights.” 

“ Would you condemn a man upon insufficient evi- 
dence ? ” 

“ I would condemn such as Gautran on any evidence. 
When you want to get rid of vermin it does not do to be 
over particular.” 

“ The law must be respected.” 

“ Life must be protected. That is the first law.” 

“ Hush ! Here he is. Best not let him overhear you.” 

There was but little diversity of opinion. Even in 
the inn of The Seven Liars, to which Fritz the Fool — who 
had attended the court every day of the trial, and who had 
the fleetest foot of any man for a dozen miles round — had 
already conveyed the news of Gautran’s acquittal, the dis- 
cussion was loud and animated ; the women regarding the 
result as an outrage on their sex, the men more disposed 
to put Gautran out of the question, and to throw upon the 
Advocate the opprobrium of the verdict. 

“ Did I not tell you,” said Fritz, “ that he could turn 
black into white ? A great man — a great man ! If we had 
more like him, murdering would be a fine trade.” 

There were, doubtless, among those who thronged the 
streets to see the Advocate pass, some sinners whose con- 
sciences tormented them, and who secretly hoped, if ex- 
posure ever overtook them, that Heaven would sencfr them 
such a defender. His reception, indeed, partook of the 
character of an ovation. These tributes to his powers made 
no impression upon him ; he pursued his way steadily on- 
ward, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and 
soon the gaily-lighted shops and cafes of Geneva were far 
behind him. 


102 A STARTLING INTERRUPTION 

His thoughts were upon John Vanbrugh, who had been 
one of his boy friends, and whom for many years he had 
believed to be dead. In his lonely walk to the House of 
White Shadows he recalled the image of Vanbrugh, and 
dwelt, with idle curiosity, upon the recollection of their 
youthful lives. He had determined not to see Van- 
brugh, and was resolved not to renew a friendship 
which, during its existence, had been lacking in those 
sterling qualities necessary for endurance. That it was 
pleasant while it lasted was the best that could be said 
of it. When he and Vanbrugh grew to manhood there 
was a wide divergence in their paths. 

One walked with firm unfaltering step the road which 
leads to honour and renown, sparing no labour, throwing 
aside seductive temptation when it presented itself to him, 
as it did in its most alluring forms, giving all his mental 
might to the cause to which he had devoted himself, study- 
ing by day and night so earnestly that his bright and 
strong intellect became stronger and clearer, and he could 
scarcely miss success. Only once in his younger days had 
he allowed himself, for a brief period, to be seduced from 
this path, and it was John Vanbrugh who had„ tempted 
him. 

The other threw himself upon pleasure’s tide, and, 
blind to earnest duty, drank the sunshine of life’s spring- 
time in draughts so intemperate that he became intoxi- 
cated with poisonous fire, and, falling into the arms of 
the knaves who thrive on human weakness and depravity, 
his moral sense, like theirs, grew warped, and he ripened 
into a knave himself. 

Something of this, but not in its fulness, had reached 
the Advocate’s ears, making but small impression upon 
him, and exciting no surprise, for by that time his judg- 
ment was matured, and human character was an open 
book to him ; and when, some little while afterwards, he 
heard that John Vanbrugh was dead, he said, “ He is 
better dead/’ and scarcely gave his once friend another 
thought. 

He was a man who had no pity for the weak, and no 
forgiveness for the erring. 

He walked slowly, with a calm enjoyment of the soli' 


A STARTLING INTERRUPTION 103 

tude and the quiet night, and presently entered a narrow 
lane, dotted with orchards. 

It was now dark, and he could not see a dozen yards 
before him. He was fond of darkness; it contained mys- 
terious possibilities, he had been heard to say. There was 
an ineffable charm in the stillness which encompassed 
him, and he enjoyed it to its full. There were cottages 
here and there, lying back from the road, but no light or 
movement in them ; the inmates were asleep. Soft sighs 
proceeded from the drowsy trees, and slender boughs 
waved solemnly, while the only sounds from the farm- 
yards were, at intervals, a muffled shaking of wings, and 
the barking of dogs whom his footsteps had aroused. As 
he passed a high wooden gate, through the bars of which 
he could dimly discern a line of tall trees standing like 
sentinels of the night, the perfume of limes was wafted 
towards him, and he softly breathed the words : 

“ My wife ! ” 

He yielded up his senses to the thralldom of a delicious 
languor, in which the only image was that of the fair and 
beautiful woman who was waiting for him in their holiday 
home. Had any person seen the tender light in his eyes, 
and heard the tone in which the words were whispered, he 
could not have doubted that the woman they referred to 
was passionately adored. 

Not for long was he permitted to muse upon the image 
of a being the thought of whom appeared to transform a 
passionless man into an ardent lover ; a harsher interrup- 
tion than sweet perfume floating on a breeze recalled him 
to his sterner self. 

“ Stop ! ” 

“ For what reason ? ” 

“ The best. Money ! ” 

The summons proceeded from one in whom, as his 
voice betrayed, the worst passions were dominant. 


104 


IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 


CHAPTER III 

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 

T HERE lived not in the world a man more fearless 
than the Advocate. At this threatening demand, 
which meant violence, perhaps murder, he ex- 
hibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an 
acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of 
snuff. Indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his 
voice assumed a lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. 
“ Money, my friend ! How much ? ” 

“ All you’ve got.” 

“ Terse, and to the point. If I refuse? ” 

“ I am desperate. Look to yourself.” 

The Advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airi- 
ness of his tones. 

“ This is a serious business, then? ” 

“ You’ll find it so, if you trifle with me.” 

“ Are you hungry ? ” 

“ I am starving.” 

“ You have a powerful voice for a starving man.” 

“ Don’t play with me, master. I mean to have what I 
ask for.” 

“ How can you, if I do not possess it ? How will you 
if, possessing it, I refuse to give it you ? ” 

The reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging 
branch, which broke it to the ground. It was evident that 
the man carried a stout weapon, and that he meant to use 
it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes. They 
spoke at arm’s-length ; neither was quite within the other’s 
grasp. 

“ A strong argument,” said the Advocate, without 
blenching, “ and a savage one. You have a staff in your 
hand, and, probably, a knife in your pocket.” 

“ Ah, I have, and a sharp blade to it.” 

“ I thought as much. Would not that do your business 
more effectually ? ” 

“ Perhaps. But I’ve learnt a lesson to-day about knives, 
which teaches me not to use mine too freely.” 


105 


IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 

The Advocate frowned. 

“ Other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if 
their proceedings were as logical. Do you know me ? ” 

“ How should I ? ” 

“ It might be, then,” continued the Advocate, secretly 
taking a box of matches from his pocket, “ that, like your- 
self, 1 am both a thief and a would-be murderer.” 

As he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match 
straight at the man’s face, and for a moment the glare 
revealed the ruffian’s features. He staggered back, re- 
peating the word “ Murderer ! ” in a hoarse startled 
whisper. The Advocate strode swiftly to his side, and 
striking another match, held it up to his own face. 

“ Look at me, Gautran,” he said. 

The man looked up, and recognising the Advocate, re- 
coiled, muttering : 

“ Aye, aye — I see who it is.” 

“ And you would rob me, wretch ! ” 

“ Not now, master, not now. Your voice — it was the 
voice of another man. I crave your pardon, humbly.” 

“ So — you recommence work early, Gautran. . Have 
you not had enough of the gaol ? ” 

“ More than enough. Don’t be hard on me, master ; 
call me mad if you like.” 

“ Mad or sane, Gautran, every man is properly made 
accountable for his acts. Take this to heart.” 

“ It won’t do me any good. What is a poor wretch to 
do with nothing but empty pockets ? ” 

“ You are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware 
it is useless to lie to me. Gautran, I can read your soul. 
You wished to speak to me in the court. Here is your 
opportunity. Say what you had to say.” 

“ Give me breathing time. You’ve the knack of driving 
the thoughts clean out of a man’s head. Have you got a 
bit of something that a poor fellow can chew — the end of 
a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?” 

“ I have nothing about me but money, which you can’t 
chew, and should not have if you could. Hearken, my 
friend. When you said you were starving, you lied to 
me.” 

“ How do you know it ? ” 


1O0| IN THE DEAD OF- NIGHT 

“ Fool ! Are there not fruit-trees here, laden with 
wholesome food, within any thief’s grasp? Your pockets 
at this moment are filled with fruit.” 

“ You have a gift,” said Gautran with a cringing 
movement of his body. “ It would be an act of charity 
to put me in the way of it.” 

“ What would you purchase ? ” asked the advocate iron- 
ically. “ Gold, for wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes ? ” 
“ Aye, master,” replied Gautran with eager voice. 

“ Power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart 
and bleed ? ” 

“ Aye, master. That would be fine.” 

“ Gautran, these things are precious, and have their 
price. What are you ready to pay for them ? ” 

“ Anything — anything but money ! ” 

“ Something of less worth — your soul ? ” 

Gautran shuddered and crossed himself. 

“ No, no,” he muttered; “ not that — not that! ” 

“ Strange,” said the Advocate with a contemptuous 
smile, “ the value we place upon an unknown quantity ! 
We cannot bargain, friend. Say now what you desire to 
say, and as briefly as you can.” 

But it was some time before Gautran could sufficiently 
recover himself to speak with composure. 

“ I want to know,” he said at length, with a clicking in 
his throat, “ whether you’ve been paid for what you did 
for me ? ” 

“ At your trial ? ” 

“ Aye, master.” 

“ I have not been paid for what I did for you.” 

“ When they told me yonder,” said Gautran after an- 
other pause, pointing in the direction of Geneva, where 
the prison lay, “ that you were to appear for me, they 
asked me how I managed it, but I couldn’t tell them, and 
I’m beating my head now to find out, without getting any 
nearer to it. There must be a reason.” 

“ You strike a key-note, my friend.” 

“ Someone has promised to pay you.” 

“ No one has promised to pay me.” 

“ You puzzle and confuse me, master. You’re a 
stranger in Geneva, I’m told.” 


107 


IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 

“ It is true.” 

“ I’ve lived about here half my life. I was born in 
Sierre. My father worked in the foundry, my mother in 
the fields. You are not a stranger in Sierre.” 

“ I am a stranger there; I never visited the town.” 

“My father* was born in Martigny. You knew my 
father.” 

“ I did not know your father.” 

“ My mother — her father once owned a vineyard. You 
knew her.” 

“ I did not know her.” 

Once more was Gautran silent. What he desired now 
to say raised up images so terrifying that he had not the 
courage to give it utterance. 

“ You are in deep shadow, my friend,” said the Advo- 
cate, “ bodv and soul. Shall I tell you what is in your 
mind?” 

“ You can do that ? ” 

“ You wish to know if 1 was acquainted with the un- 
happy girl with whose murder you were charged.” 

“ Is there another in the world like you ? ” asked 
Gautran, with fear in his voice. “ Yes, that is what I 
want to know.” 

“ I was not acquainted with her.” 

Gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. 
“ Then what,” he exclaimed, “ in the fiend’s name made 
you come forward ? ” 

“ At length,” said the Advocate, “ we arrive at an in- 
teresting point in our conversation. I thank you for the 
opportunity you afford me in questioning my inner self. 
What made me come forward to the assistance of 
such a scoundrel? Humanity? No. Sympathy? No. 
What, then, was my motive? Indeed, friend, you strike 
home. Shall I say I was prompted by a desire to assist 
the course of justice — or by a contemptible feeling of 
vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of 
proving myself the victor? It was something of both, 
mayhap. Do you know, Gautran, a kind of self-despisal 
stirs within me at the present moment? You do not un- 
derstand me? I will give you a close illustration. You 
are a thief.” 


108 


IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 


“ Yes, master.” 

“ You steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in 
as it were, and you feel a certain satisfaction at having 
accomplished your theft in a workmanlike manner. We 
are all of us but gross and earthly patches. It is simply 
a question of degree, and it is because I am in an idle 
mood — indeed, I am grateful to you for this playful hour 
— that I make a confession to you which would not elevate 
me in the eyes of better men. You were anxious to know 
whether I have been paid for my services. I now acknowl- 
edge payment. I accept as my fee the recreation you 
have afforded me.” 

“ I shall be obliged to you, master,” said Gautran, “ if 
you will leave your mysteries, and come back to my trial.” 

“ I will oblige you. I read the particulars of the case 
for the first time on my arrival here, and it appeared to 
me almost impossible you could escape conviction. It was 
simply that. I examined you, and saw the legal point 
which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence. That 
laugh of yours, Gautran, has no mirth in it. I am be- 
ginning to be dangerously shaken. I will do, I said then, 
for this wretch what I believe no other man can do. I 
will perform a miracle.” 

“ You have done it ! ” cried Gautran, falling on his 
knees in a paroxysm of fear, and kissing the Advocate’s 
hand, which was instantly snatched away. “ You are 
great — you are the greatest ! You knew the truth ! ” 

“ The truth ! ” echoed the Advocate, and his face grew 
ashen white. 

“ Aye, the truth — and you were sent to save me. You 
can read the soul ; nothing is hidden from you. But you 
have not finished your work. You can save me entirely 
— you can, you can ! Oh, master, finish your work, and I 
will be your slave to the last hour of my life ! ” 

“Save you! From what?” demanded the Advocate. 
He was compelled to exercise great control over himself, 
for a horror was stealing upon him. 

The trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite 
roadside. 

“ From shadows — from dreams — from the wild eyes of 
Madeline ! Look there — look there ! ” 


109 


THE CONFESSION 

The Advocate turned in the direction of Gautran’s out- 
stretched trembling hand. A pale light was coming into 
the sky, and weird shadows were on the earth. 

“ What are you gazing on ? ” 

“ You ask me to torture me,” moaned Gautran. “ She 
dogs me like my shadow — I cannot shake her off ! I have 
threatened her, but she does not heed me. She is waiting 
— there — there — to follow me when I am alone — to put 
her arms about me — to breathe upon my face, and turn 
my heart to ice ! If I could hold her, I would tear her 
piecemeal ! You must have known her, you who can 
read what passes in a man’s soul — you who knew the truth 
when you came to me in my cell ! She will not obey me, 
but she will you. Command her, compel her to leave me, 
or she will drive me mad ! ” 

With amazing strength the Advocate placed his hands 
on Gautran’s shoulders, and twisted the man’s face so 
close to his own that not an inch of space divided them. 
Their eyes met, Gautran’s wavering and dilating with 
fear, the Advocate’s fixed and stern, and with a fire in 
them terrible to behold. 

“ Recall,” said the Advocate, in a clear voice that rang 
through the night like a bell, “ what passed between you 
and Madeline on the last night of her life. Speak ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 

THE CONFESSION 

“ "g" SOUGHT her in the Quartier St. Gervais,” said 
Gautran, speaking like a man in a dream, “ and 
1 found her at eight o’clock in the company of a man. 
I watched them, and kept out of their sight. 

“ He was speaking to her softly, and some things he 
said to her made her smile; and every time she showed 
her white teeth I swore that she should be mine and mine 
alone. They remained together for an hour, and then 
they parted, he going one way, Madeline another. 

“ I followed her along the banks of the river, and when 
no one was near us I spoke to her. She was not pleased 


110 


THE CONFESSION 


with my company, and bade me leave her, but I replied 
that I had something particular to say to her, and did not 
intend to go till it was spoken. 

“ It was a dark night ; there was no moon. 

“ I told her I had been watching her, and that I knew 
she had another lover. ‘ Do you mean to give me up ? ’ I 
said, and she answered that she had never accepted me, 
and that after that night she would never see me again. 
I said it might happen, and that it might be the last night 
we should ever see each other. She asked me if I was 
going away, and I said no, it might be her that was going 
away on the longest journey she had ever taken. ‘ What 
journey?’ she asked, and I answered, a journey with 
Death for the coachman, for I had sworn a dozen times 
that night that if she would not swear upon her cross to 
be true and faithful to me, I would kill her. 

“ I said it twice, and some persons passed and turned 
to look at us, but there was not light enough to see us 
clearly. 

“ Madeline would have cried to them for help, but I 
held my hand over her mouth, and whispered that if she 
uttered a word it would be her last, and that she need not 
be frightened, for I loved her too well to do her any 
harm. 

“ But when we were alone again, and no soul was near 
us, I told her again that as sure as there was a sky above 
us I would kill her, unless she swore to give up her other 
lover, and be true to me. She said she would promise, 
and she put her little hand in mine and pressed it, and 
said : 

Gautran, I will be only yours ; now let us go back.’ 

“ But I told her it was not enough ; that she must kneel, 
and swear upon the holy cross that she would have 
nothing to do with any man but me. I forced her upon 
her knees, and knelt by her side, and put the cross to her 
lips ; and then she began to sob and tremble. She dared 
not put her soul in peril, she said ; she did not love me — 
how could she swear to be true to me ? 

“ I said it was that or death, and that it would be the 
blackest hour of my life to kill her, but that I meant to 
do it if she would not give in to me. I asked her for the 


THE CONFESSION 


111 


last time whether she would take the oath, and she said 
she daren’t. Then I told her to say a prayer, for she had 
not five minutes to live. She started to her feet and ran 
along the bank. I ran after her, and she stumbled and fell 
to the ground, and before she could escape me again I had 
her in my arms to fling her into the river. 

“ She did not scratch or bite me, but clung to me, and 
her tears fell all about my face. I said to her : 

“ ‘ You love me, kissing me so; swear then; it is not 
too late ! ’ 

“ But she cried : 

“ No, no ! I kiss you so that you may not have the 
heart to kill me ! ’ 

“ Soon she got weak, and her arms had no power in 
them, and I lifted her high in the air, and flung her far 
from me into the river. 

“ I waited a minute or two, and thought she was dead, 
but then I heard a bubbling and a scratching, and, look- 
ing down, $aw that by a miracle she had got back to the 
river’s brink, and that there was yet life in her. I pulled 
her out, and she clung to me in a weak way, and whis- 
pered, nearly choked the while, that the Virgin Mary 
would not let me kill her. 

“ Will you take the oath ? ’ I asked, and she shook her 
head from side to side. 

“‘No! no! no!’ 

“ I took my handkerchief, and tied it tight round her 
neck, and she smiled in my face. Then I lifted her up, 
and threw her into the river again. 

“ I saw her no more that night ! ” 

ijj >j« 5fc Hi ★ 

The Advocate removed his eyes, with a shudder, from 
the eyes of the wretch who had made this horrible confes- 
sion, and who now sank to the ground, quivering in every 
limb, crying : 

“ Save me, master, save me ! ” 

“ Monster ! ” exclaimed the Advocate. “ Live and die 
accursed ! ” 

But the terror-stricken man did not hear the words, and 
the Advocate, upon whose features, during Gautran’s 


112 


THE CONFESSION 


narration, a deep gloom had settled, strode swiftly from 
him through the peaceful narrow lane, fragrant with the 
perfume of limes, at the end of which the lights in the 
House of White Shadows were shining a welcome to 
him. 


PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 113 


BOOK III— THE GRAVE OF HONOUR. 


CHAPTER I 

PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 

AT noon the same day the old housekeeper, Mother 
Denise, and her pretty granddaughter Dionetta 
JL JL were busily employed setting in order and ar- 
ranging the furniture in a suite of rooms intended for an 
expected visitor. There were but two floors in the House 
of White Shadows, and the rooms in which Mother Denise 
and Dionetta were busy were situated on the upper 
floor. 

“ I think they will do now,” said Mother Denise, wiping 
imaginary dust away with her apron. 

“ All but the flowers,” said Dionetta. “ No, grandmother, 
that desk is wrong ; it is my lady’s own desk, and is to be 
placed exactly in this corner, by the window. There — it 
is right now. Be sure that everything is in its proper 
place, and that the rooms are sweet and bright — be sure — 
be sure ! She has said that twenty times this week.” 

“ Ah,” said Mother Denise testily, “ as if butterflies 
could teach bees how to work ! My lady is turning your 
head, Dionetta, it is easy to see that; she has bewitched 
half the people in the village. Here is father, with the 
flowers. Haste, Martin, haste ! ” 

“ Easy to say, hard to do,” grumbled Martin, entering 
slowly with a basket of cut flowers. “ My bones get more 
obstinate every day. Here’s my lady been teasing me out 
of my life to cut every flower worth looking at. She 
would have made the garden a wilderness, and spoilt 
every bed, if I had not argued with her.” 

“ And what did she say,” asked Mother Denise, “ when 
you argued with her ? ” 


114 PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 

“ Say ? Smiled, and showed all her white teeth at once. 
I never saw such teeth in my young days, nor such eyes, 
nor such hair, nor such hands — enough to drive a young 
man crazy.” 

“ Or an old one either,” interrupted Mother Denise. 
“ She smiled as sweet as honey — you silly old man — and 
wheedled you, and wheedled you, till she got what she 
wanted.” 

“ Pretty well, pretty well. You see, Dionetta, there are 
two ways of getting a thing done, a soft way and a hard 
way.” 

“ There, there, there ! ” cried Mother Denise impa- 
tiently. “ Do your work with a still tongue, and let us 
do ours. Get back to the garden, and repair the mischief 
my lady has caused you to do. What does a man want 
with a room full of roses ? ” she muttered, when Martin, 
quick to obey his domestic tyrant, had gone. 

“ It is a welcome home,” said Dioribtta. “ If I were 
absent from my place a long, long while, it would make 
me feel glad when I returned, to see my rooms as bright 
as this. It is as though the very roses remembered 
you.” 

“ You are young,” said Mother Denise, “ and your 
thoughts go the way of roses. I can’t blame you, Dio- 
netta.” 

“ It was ten years since the master was here, you have 
told me, grandmother.” 

“ Yes, Dionetta, yes, ten years ago this summer, and 
even then he did not sleep in the house. Christian Aimer 
hates the place, and of all the rooms in the villa, this is 
the room he would be most anxious to avoid.” 

“ But why, grandmother ? ” asked Dionetta, her eyes 
growing larger and rounder with wonder ; “ and does my 
lady know it ? ” 

“ My lady is a headstrong woman ; she would not listen 
to me when I advised her to select other rooms for the 
young master, and she declares — in a light way to be sure, 
but these are not things to make light of— that she is 
very disappointed to find that the villa is not haunted. 
Haunted ! I have never seen anything, nor has Martin, 
nor you, Dionetta.” 


PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 115 

“ Oh, grandmother ! ” said the girl, in a timid voice, “ I 
don’t know whether I have or not. Sometimes I have 
fancied ” 

“ Of course you have fancied, and that is all ; and you 
have* woke up in the night, and been frightened by 
nothing. Mark me, Dionetta, if you do.no wrong, and 
think no wrong, you will never see anything of the White 
Shadows of this house.” 

“ I am certain,” said Dionetta, more positively, “ when 
I have been almost falling asleep, that I have heard them 
creeping, creeping past the door. I have listened to them 
over and over again, without daring to move in bed. In- 
deed I have.” 

“ I am certain,” retorted Mother Denise, “ that you have 
heard nothing of the kind. You are a foolish, silly girl to 
speak of such things. You put me quite out of patience, 
child.” 

“ But Fritz says ” 

“ Fritz is a fool, a cunning, lazy fool. If I were the 
owner of this property I would pack him off. There’s no 
telling which master he serves — Christian Aimer or 
Master Pierre Lamont. He likes his bread buttered on 
both sides, and accepts money from both gentlemen. That 
is not the conduct of a faithful servant. If I acted in such 
a manner I should consider myself disgraced.” 

“ I am sure,” murmured Dionetta, “ that Fritz has done 
nothing to disgrace himself.” 

“ Let those who are older than you,” said Mother 
Denise, in a sharp tone, “ be judges of that. Fritz is good 
for nothing but to chatter like a magpie and idle round 
the place from morning to night. When there’s work to 
do, as there has been this week, carrying furniture and 
moving heavy things about, he must run away to the city, 
to the court-house where that murderer is being tried. 
Dionetta, I am not in love with the Advocate or his lady. 
The Advocate is trying to get a murderer off ; it may be 
the work of a clever man, but it is not the work of a good 
man. If I had a son, I would sooner have him good than 
clever ; and I would sooner you married a good man than 
a clever one. I hope you are not thinking of marrying a 
fool.” 


116 PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 

“ Oh, grandmother, whoever thinks of marry- 
ing?” 

“ Not you, of course, child — would you have me believe 
that? When I was your age I thought of nothing else, 
and when you are my age you will see the folly of it. No, 
I am not in love with the Advocate. He is performing 
unholy work down there in Geneva. The priest says as 
much. If that murderer escapes from justice, the guilt 
of blood will weigh upon the Advocate’s soul.” 

“ Oh, grandmother! If my lady heard you she would 
never forgive you.” 

“ If she hears it, it will not be from my tongue. Dio- 
netta, it was a young girl who was murdered, about the 
same age as yourself. It might have been you — ah, you 
may well turn white — and this clever lawyer, this stranger 
it is, who comes among us to prevent justice being done 
upon a murderous wretch. He will be punished for it, 
mark my words.” 

Dionetta, who knew how useless it was to oppose her 
grandmother’s opinions, endeavoured to change the sub- 
ject by saying : 

“ Tell me, grandmother, why Mr. Aimer should be 
more anxious to avoid this room than any other room in 
the house ? I think it is the prettiest of all.” 

Mother Denise did not reply. She looked round her 
with the air of a woman recalling a picture of long 
ago. 

“ The story connected with this part of the house,” she 
presently said, “ gave to the villa the name of the House 
of White Shadows. You are old enough to hear it. Let 
me see, let me see. Christian Aimer is now thirty- 
one years old — yes, thirty-one on his last birthday. 
How time passes ! I remember well the day he was 
born ” 

“ Hush, grandmother,” said Dionetta, holding up her 
hand. “ My lady.” 

The Advocate’s wife had entered the room quietly, and 
was regarding the arrangements with approval. 

“ It is excellently done,” she said, “ exactly as I wished. 
Dionetta, it was you who arranged the flowers ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 


PREPARATIONS FOR A VISITOR 117 

“ You have exquisite taste, really exquisite. Mother 
Denise, I am really obliged to you.” 

“ I have done nothing,” said Mother Denise, “ that it 
was not my duty to do.” 

“ Such an unpleasant way of putting it; for there is a 
way of doing things ” 

“Just what grandfather said,” cried Dionetta, glee- 
fully, “ a hard way and a soft way.” And then becoming 
suddenly aware of her rudeness in interrupting her mis- 
tress, she curtsied, and with a bright colour in her face, 
said, “ I beg your pardon, my lady/' 

“ There’s no occasion, child,” said Adelaide graciously. 
“ Grandfather is quite right, and everything in this room 
has been done beautifully.” She held a framed picture in 
her hand, a coloured cabinet photograph of herself, and 
she looked round the walls to find a place for it. “ This 
will do,” she said, and she took down the picture of a child 
which hung immediately above her desk, and put her own 
in its stead. “ It is nice,” she said to Mother Denise, smil- 
ing, “ to see the faces of old friends about us. Mr. Aimer 
and I are very old friends.” 

“ The picture you have taken down,” said Mother 
Denise, “ is of Christian Aimer when he was a child.” 

“ Indeed ! How old was he then ? ” 

“ Five years, my lady.” 

“ He was a handsome boy. His hair and eyes are darker 
now. You were speaking of him. Mother Denise, as I 
entered. You were saying lie was thirty-one last birthday, 
and that you remember the day he was born.” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ And you were about to tell Dionetta why this villa 
was called the House of White Shadows. Give me the 
privilege of hearing the story.” 

“ I would rather not relate it, my lady.” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense! If Dionetta may hear it, there 
can be no objection to me. Mr. Aimer would be quite 
angry if he knew you refused me so simple a thing. Lis- 
ten to what he says in his last letter,” and Adelaide took 
a letter from her pocket, and read : “ ‘ Mother Denise, 
the housekeeper, and the most faithful servant of the 
house, will do everything in her power to make you com- 


118 A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST 

fortable and happy. She will carry out your wishes to 
the letter — tell her, if necessary, that it is my desire, and 
that she is to refuse you nothing.’ Now, you dear old 
soul, are you satisfied ? ” 

“ Well, my lady, if you insist ” 

“ Of course I insist, you dear creature. I am sure there 
is no one in the village who can tell a story half as well 
as you. Come and stand by me, Dionetta, for fear of 
ghosts.” 

She seated herself before the desk, upon which she laid 
the picture of the lad, and Mother Denise, who was really 
by no means loth to recall old reminiscences, and who, as 
she proceeded, derived great enjoyment herself from her 
narration, thus commenced: 

CHAPTER II 

A LOVE STORY OF THE. PAST 

“T WAS born in this house, my lady; my mother was 
housekeeper here before me. I am sixty-eight 
JL years old, and I have never slept a night away 
from the villa ; I hope to die here. Until your arrival the 
house has not been inhabited for more than twenty years. 
I dare say if Mr. Christian Aimer, the present master, had 
the power to sell the estate, he would have done so long 
ago, but he is bound by his father’s will not to dispose of 
it while he lives. So it has been left to our care all these 
years. 

“ Christian Aimer’s father lived here, and courted his 
young wife here ; a very beautiful lady. That is her por- 
trait hanging on the wall. It was painted by M. Gabriel, 
and is a faithf.ul likeness of Mr. Christian Aimer’s mother. 
His father, perhaps he may have told you, was a dis- 
tinguished author ; there are books upon the library shelves 
written by him. I will speak of him, if you please, as Mr. 
Aimer, and my present master I will call Master Chris- 
tian; it will make the story easier to tell. 

“ When Mr. Aimer came into his property, which con- 
sisted of this villa and many houses and much land in 
other parts, all of which have been sold — this is the only 


A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST 


119 


portion of the old estates which remains in the family — 
there were at least twenty servants employed here. He 
was fond of passing days and nights shut up with his 
books and papers, but he liked to see company about him. 
He had numerous friends and acquaintances, and money 
was freely spent; he would invite a dozen, twenty at a 
time, who used to come and go as they pleased, living in 
the house as if it were their own. Mr. Aimer and his 
friends understood each other, and the master was seldom 
intruded upon. In his solitude he was very, very quiet, 
but when he came among his guests he was full of life and 
spirits. He seemed to forget his books, and his studies, 
and it was hard to believe he was the same gentleman 
who appeared to be so happy when he was in solitude. 
He was a good master, and although he appeared to pay 
no attention to what was passing around him, there was 
really very little that escaped his notice. 

“ At the time I speak of he was not a young man; he 
was forty-five years of age, and everybody wondered why 
he did not marry. He laughed, and shook his head when 
it was mentioned, and said sometimes that he was too old, 
sometimes that he was happy enough with his books, 
sometimes that if a man married without loving and being 
loved he deserved every kind of misfortune that could 
happen to him ; and then he would say that, cold as he 
might appear, he worshipped beauty, and that it was not 
possible he could marry any but a young and beautiful 
woman. I have heard the remark made to him that the 
world was full of young and beautiful women, and have 
heard him reply that it was not liKely one would fall at 
the feet of a man of his age. 

“ My mother and I were privileged servants — my 
mother had been his nurse, and he had an affection for her 
— so that we had opportunities of hearing and* knowing 
more than the others. 

“ One summer there came to the villa, among the 
visitors, an old gentleman and his wife, and their daugh- 
ter. The young lady’s name was Beatrice. 

“ She was one of the brightest beings I have ever be- 
held, with the happiest face and the happiest laugh, and 
a step as light as a fairy’s. I do not know how many 


120 A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST 

people fell in love with her — I think all who saw her. My 
master, Mr. Aimer, was one of these, but, unlike her other 
admirers, he shunned rather than followed her. He shut 
himself up with his books for longer periods, and took 
less part than ever in the gaieties and excursions which 
were going on day after day. No one would have sup- 
posed that her beauty and her winning ways had made 
any impression upon him. 

“ It is not for me to say whether the young lady, observ- 
ing this, as she could scarcely help doing, resolved to 
attract him to her. When we are young we act from im- 
pulse, and do not stop to consider consequences. It hap- 
pened, however, and she succeeded in wooing him from 
his books. But there was no love-making on his part, as 
far as anybody could see, and his conduct gave occasion 
for no remarks ; but I remember it was spoken of among 
the guests that the young lady was in love with our 
master, and we all wondered what would come of it. 

“ Soon afterwards a dreadful accident occurred. 

“ The gentlemen were out riding, and were not expected 
home till evening, but they had not been away more than 
two hours before Mr. Aimer galloped back in a state of 
great agitation. He sought Mdlle. Beatrice’s mother, and 
communicated the news to her, in a gentle manner you 
may be sure. Her husband had been thrown from his 
horse, and was being carried to the villa dreadfully hurt 
and in a state of insensibility. Mr. Aimer’s great anxiety 
was to keep the news from Mdlle. Beatrice, but he did 
not succeed. She rushed into the room and heard all. 

“ She was like one distracted. She flew out of the villa 
in her white dress, and ran along the road the horsemen 
had taken. Her movements were so quick that they could 
not stop her, but Mr. Aimer ran after her, and brought 
her back to the house in a fainting condition. A few 
minutes afterwards the old gentleman was brought in, 
and the house was a house of mourning. No dancing, no 
music, no singing; all was changed.; we spoke in whispers, 
and moved about slowly, just as if a funeral was about to 
take place. The doctors gave no hopes; they said he 
might linger in a helpless state for weeks, but that it was 
impossible he could recover. 


A LOVE STORY OF THE PAST 12l 

“ Of course this put an end to all the festivities, and 
one after another the guests took their departure, until in 
a little while the only visitors remaining were the family 
upon whom such a heavy blow had fallen. 

“ Mr. Aimer no longer locked himself up in his study, 
but devoted the whole of his time to Mdlle. Beatrice and 
her parents. He asked me to wait upon Mdlle. Beatrice, 
and to see that her slightest wish was gratified. I found 
her very quiet and very gentle; she spoke but little, and 
the only thing she showed any obstinacy in was in insisting 
upon sitting by her father’s bedside a few hours every 
day. I had occasion, not very long afterwards, to learn 
that when she set her mind upon a thing, it was not easy 
to turn her from it. These gentle, delicate creatures, 
sometimes, are capable of as great determination as the 
strongest man. 

“ ‘ Denise/ said Mr. Aimer to me, ‘ the doctors say 
that if Mdlle. Beatrice does not take exercise she will her- 
self become seriously ill. Prevail upon her to enjoy fresh 
air : walk with her in the garden an hour or so every day, 
and amuse her with light talk ; a nature like hers requires 
sunshine.’ 

“ I did my best to please Mr. Aimer ; the weather was 
fine, and not a day passed that Mdlle. Beatrice did not walk 
with me in the grounds. And here Mr. Aimer was in the 
habit of joining us. When he came, I fell back, and he 
and Mdlle. Beatrice walked side by side, sometimes arm in 
arm, and I a few yards behind. 

“ I could not help noticing the wonderful kindness of 
his manner towards her; it was such as a father might 
show for a daughter he loved very dearly. ‘ Well, well ! ’ 
I thought. I seemed to see how it would all end, and I 
believed it would be a good ending, although there were 
such a number of years between them — he forty-five, and 
she seventeen. 

“ A month passed in this way, and the old gentle- 
man’s condition became so critical that we expected every 
moment to hear of his death. The accident had deprived 
him of his senses, and it was only two days before his 
death that his mind became clear. Then a long private 
interview took place between him and Mr. Aimer, which 


122 


A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 


left my master more than ever serious, and more than ever 
gentle towards MdlLe. Beatrice. 

“ I was present when the old gentleman died. He had 
lost the power of speech ; his wife was sitting by his bed- 
side holding his hand ; his daughter was on her knees with 
her face buried in the bed-clothes ; Mr. Aimer was stand- 
ing close, looking down upon them; I was at the end of 
the room waiting to attend upon Mdlle. Beatrice. She was 
overwhelmed with grief, but her mother’s trouble, it ap- 
peared to me, was purely selfish. She seemed to be think- 
ing of what would become of her when her husband was 
gone. The dying gentleman suddenly looked into my 
master’s face, and then turned his eyes upon his daugh- 
ter, and my master inclined his head gravely, as though 
he was answering a question. A peaceful expression came 
upon the sufferer’s face, and in a very little while he 
breathed his last.” 

Here Mother Denise paused and broke off in her story, 
saying : 

“ I did not know it would take so long a-telling ; I have 
wearied you, my lady.” 

“ Indeed not,” said the Advocate’s wife ; “ I don’t 
know when I have been so much interested. It is just 
like reading a novel. *1 am sure there is something start- 
ling to come. You must go on to the end, Mother De- 
nise, if you please.” 

“ With your permission, my lady,” said Mother Denise, 
and smoothing down her apron, she continued the narra- 
tive. 


CHAPTER VII 


A MOTHER S TREACHERY 

I WO days after Mdlle. Beatrice’s father was 
buried, Mr. Aimer said to me : 

Denise, I am compelled to go away on busi- 
ness, and I shall be absent a fortnight at least. I leave 
Mdlle. Beatrice in your care. As a mark of faithful serv- 
ice to me, be sure that nothing is. left undone to comfort 
both her and her mother in their great trouble.’ 


rjr 


A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 123 

“ I understood without his telling me that it was really 
Mdlle. Beatrice he was anxious about ; everyone who had 
any experience of the old lady knew that she was very 
well able to take care of herself. 

“ On the same day a long conversation took place be- 
tween my master and the widow, and before sundown he 
departed. 

“ It got to be known that he had gone to look after the 
affairs of the gentleman who died here, and that the 
ladies, instead of being rich, as we had supposed them to 
be, were in reality very poor, and likely to be thrown 
upon the world in a state of poverty, unless they accepted 
assistance from Mr. Aimer. They were much worse off 
than poor people ; having been brought up as ladies, they 
could do nothing to help themselves. 

“ While Mr. Aimer was away, Mdlle. Beatrice and I 
became almost friends, I may say. She took great notice 
of me, and appeared to be glad to have me with her. The 
poor young lady had no one else, for there was not much 
love lost between her and her mother. The selfish old 
lady did nothing but bewail her own hard fate, and spoke 
to her daughter as if the young lady could have nothing 
to grieve at in being deprived of a father’s love. 

“ But sorrow does not last forever, my lady, even with 
the old, and the young shake it off much more readily. 
So it was, to my mind, quite natural, when Mr. Aimer 
returned, which he did after an absence of fifteen days, 
that he should find Mdlle. Beatrice much more cheerful 
than when he left. He was pleased to say that it was my 
doing, and that I should have no cause to regret it to the 
last day of my life. I had done so little that the great 
store he set upon it made me think more and more of the 
ending to it all. There could be but one natural ending, 
a marriage, and yet never for one moment had I seen 
him conduct himself toward Mdlle. Beatrice as a lover. 
He brought bad news back with him, and when he com- 
municated it to the old lady she walked about the grounds 
like a distracted person, moaning and wringing her hands, 

“ I got to know about it, through my young lady. We 
were out walking in the lanes when we overtook two 
wretched-looking women, one old and one young. They 


124 A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 

were in rags, and their white faces and slow, painful 
steps, as they dragged one foot after another, would have 
led anybody to suppose that they had not eaten a meal 
for days. They were truly misery’s children. 

“ Mdlle. Beatrice asked in a whisper, as they turned 
and looked pitifully at her : 

“ ‘ Who are they, Denise ? ’ 

“ ‘ They are beggars,’ I answered. 

“ She took out her purse, and spoke to them, and gave 
them some money. They thanked her gratefully, and 
crawled away, Mdlle. Beatrice looking after them with 
an expression of thoughtfulness and curiosity in her 
lovely face. 

“ Denise,’ she said presently, 4 Mr. Aimer, who, be- 
fore my father’s death, promised to look after his affairs, 
has told us we are beggars.’ 

“ I was very, very sorry to hear it, but I could not 
reconcile the appearance of the bright young creature 
standing before me with that of the wretched beings who 
had just left us; and although she spoke gravely, and 
said the news was shocking, she did not seem to feel it 
as much as her words would have led one to believe. It 
was a singular thing, my lady, that Mdlle. Beatrice wore 
black for her father for only one day. There was quite 
a scene between her and her mother on the subject, but 
the young lady had her way, and only wore her black 
dress for a few hours. 

“ ‘ I hate it,’ she said; 4 it makes me feel as if I were 
dead.’ 

“I am sure it was not because she did not love her 
father that she refused to put on mourning for him.. 
Never, except on that one day, did I see her wear any 
dress but white, and the only bits of colour she put on 
were sometimes a light pink or a light blue ribbon. That 
is how it gjot to be said, when she was seen from a dis- 
tance walking in the grounds : 

She looks like a white shadow.’ 

“ So when she told me she was a beggar, and stood 
before me, fair and beautiful, dressed in soft white, with 
a pink ribbon at her throat, and long coral earrings in her 
ears, I could not understand how it was possible she 


A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 


125 


could be what she said. It was true, though; she and 
her mother had not a franc, and Mr. Aimer, who brought 
the news, did not seem to be sorry for it. The widow 
cried for days and days — did nothing but cry and cry, but 
that, of course, could not go on forever, and in time she 
became, to all appearance, consoled. No guests were 
invited to the villa, and my master was alone with Mdlle. 
Beatrice and her mother. 

“ It seemed to me, after a time, that he made many 
attempts to get back into his old groove ; but he was not 
his own master, and could not do as he pleased. Now 
it was Mdlle. Beatrice who wanted him, now it was her 
mother, and as they were in a measure dependent upon 
him he could not deny himself to them. He might have 
done so had they been rich ; he could not do so as they 
were poor. I soon saw that when Mdlle. Beatrice in- 
truded herself upon him it was at the instigation of her 
mother, and that, had she consulted her own inclination, 
she would have retired as far into the background as he 
himself desired to be. The old lady, however, had set 
her heart upon a scheme, and she left no stone unturned 
to bring it about. Oh, she was cunning and clever, and 
they were not a match for her, neither herdaughter, 
who knew nothing of the world, nor Mr. Aimer, who, 
deeply read as he was, and clever, and wise in many 
things, knew as little of worldly ways as the young lady 
he loved and was holding aloof from. For this was clear 
to me and to others, though I dare say our master had 
no idea that his secret was known — indeed, that it was 
common talk. 

“ One morning I had occasion to go into Geneva to 
purchase things for the house, which I was to bring back 
with me in the afternoon. As I was stepping into the 
waggon, Mdlle. Beatrice came out of the gates and 
said : 

“ ‘ Denise, will you pass the post-office in Geneva? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, mademoiselle/ I replied. 

“ * Here is a letter/ she then said, ‘ I have just written, 
and I want it posted there at once. Will you do it for 
me ? ’ 

“ ‘ Certainly I will/ I said, and I took the letter. 


126 


A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 


“ ‘ Be sure you do not forget, Denise/ she said, as she 
turned away. 

“ ‘ I will not forget, mademoiselle/ I said. 

“There was no harm in looking at the envelope ; it was 
addressed to a M. Gabriel. I was not half a mile on the 
road to Geneva before I heard coming on behind me very 
fast the wheels of a carriage. We drove aside to let it 
pass; it was one of our own carriages, and the old lady 
was in it. 

“ ‘ Ah, Denise/ she said, are you going to Geneva ? ’ 

“ 4 Yes, my lady.’ 

“ ‘ I shall be there an hour before you ; I am going to 
the post-office to get some letters.’ As she said that I 
could not help glancing at the letter Mdlle. Beatrice had 
given me, which I held in my hand for safety. ‘ It is a 
letter my daughter has given you to post/ she said. 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady/ I could say nothing else. 

" ‘ Give it to me/ she said, ‘ I know she wants it posted 
immediately. It does not matter who posts a letter.’ 

“ She said this impatiently and haughtily, for I think I 
was hesitating. However, I could do nothing but give 
her the letter, and as I did not suspect anything wrong I 
said nothing of the adventure to Mdlle. Beatrice, espe- 
cially as she did not speak of the letter to me. Had she 
done so, I might have explained that her mother had 
taken it from me to post, and quite likely — although I 
hope I am mistaken — the strange and dreadful events 
that occurred before three years passed by might have 
been avoided. 

“ ‘ The old lady was very civil to me after this, and 
would continually question me about my master. 

“ ‘ He has a great deal of property ? ’ she asked. 

“ ‘ Yes, madame.’ 

“ ‘ He is very rich, Denise ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, madame.’ 

“ - And comes from an old family ? 9 

“ ‘ Yes, madame.’ 

It is a pity he writes books ; but he is highly re- 
spected, is he not, Denise ? ’ 

No gentleman stands higher, madame.’ 

ft ‘ His nature, Denise — though it is exceedingly wrong 


A MOTHER’S TREACHERY 127 

in me to ask, for I have had experience of it — his nature 
is very kind ? ’ 

Very kind, madame, and very noble.’ 

“ A hundred questions of this kind were put to me, 
sometimes when the young lady was present, sometimes 
when the mother and I were alone. While this was going 
on, I often noticed that Mdlle. Beatrice came from her 
mother’s room in great agitation. From a man these 
signs can be hidden ; from a woman, no ; man is too often 
blind to the ways of women. I am sure Mr. Aimer knew 
nothing of what was passing between mother and daugh- 
ter ; but even if he had known he would not have under- 
stood the meaning of it — I did not at the time. 

“ Well, all at once the old lady made her appearance 
among us with a face in which the greatest delight was 
expressed. She talked to the servants quite graciously, 
and nodded and smiled, and didn’t know what to do to 
show how amiable she was. ‘ What a change in the 
weather ! ’ we all said. The reason was soon forthcom- 
ing. Our master and her daughter were engaged to be 
married. 

“ We were none of us sorry; we all liked Mdlle. Bea- 
trice, and it was sad to think that a good old race would 
die out if Mr. Aimer remained single all the days of his 
life. Yes, we talked over the approaching marriage, as 
did everybody in the village, with real pleasure, and if 
good feeling and sincere wishes could bring happiness, 
Mr. Aimer and his young and beautiful wife that was to 
be could not have failed to enjoy it. 

“ ‘ It is true, mademoiselle, is it not ? ’ I asked of her. 
‘ I may congratulate you ? ’ 

“ ‘ I am engaged to be married to Mr. Aimer,’ she 
said, ‘ if that is what you mean.’ 

“ ‘ You will have a good man for your husband, made- 
moiselle,’ I said ; ‘ you will be very happy.’ 

“ But here was something in her manner that made 
me hope the approaching change in her condition would 
not make her proud. It was cold and distant — different 
from the way she had hitherto behaved to me. 

“ So the old house was gay again ; improvements and 
alterations were made, and very soon we were thronged 


128 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


with visitors, who came and went, and laughed and 
danced, as though life were a perpetual holiday. 

“ But Mdlle. Beatrice was not as light-hearted as be- 
fore; she moved about more slowly, and with a certain 
sadness. It was noticed by many. I thought, perhaps, 
that the contemplation of the change in her life made her 
more serious, or that she had not yet recovered the shock 
of her father’s death. The old lady was in her glory, 
ordering here and ordering there, and giving herself such 
airs that one might have supposed it was she who was 
going to get married, and not her daughter. 

“ Mr. Aimer gave Mdlle. Beatrice no cause for dis- 
quiet ; he was entirely and most completely devoted to her, 
and I am sure that no other woman in the world ever had 
a more faithful lover. He watched her every step, and 
followed her about with his eyes in a way that would 
have made any ordinary woman proud. As for presents, 
he did not know how to do enough for the beautiful girl 
who was soon to be his wife. I never saw such beautiful 
jewelry as he had made for her, and he seemed to be 
continually studying what to do to give her pleasure. 
If ever a woman ought to have been happy, she ought 
to have been. 


CHAPTER IV 

HUSBAND AND WIFE 

TT TELL, they were married, and the day was never 
%/%/ forgotten in the village. Mr. Aimer made 
V ▼ everybody merry, the children, the grown-up 
people, the poor, and the well-to-do. New dresses, rib- 
bons, flags, flowers, music and feasting from morning to 
night — there was never seen anything like it. The bride, 
in -her white dress and veil, was as beautiful as an angel, 
and Mr. Aimer’s face had a light in it such as I had never 
seen before — it shone with pride, and joy, and happiness. 

“ In the afternoon they departed on their honeymoon 
tour, and the old lady was left mistress of the villa during 
the absence of the newly-married pair. She exercised her 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 129 

* 

authority in a way that was not pleasing to us. No 
wonder, therefore, that we looked upon her with dislike, 
and spoke of it as an evil day when she came among us ; 
but that did not lessen our horror at an accident which 
befell her, and which led to her death. 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Aimer had been absent barely three 
weeks when the old lady going into a distant part of the 
grounds where workmen were employed in building up 
some rocks to serve as an artificial waterfall, fell mlo a 
pit, and was so frightfully bruised and shaken that, when 
she was taken up, the doctors declared she could not live 
another twenty-four hours. Letters were immediately 
sent off to Mr. Aimer, but there was no chance of his re- 
ceiving them before the unfortunate old lady breathed her 
last. We did everything we could for her, and she took 
it into her head that she would have no one to attend to 
her but me. 

“ ‘ My daughter is fond of you,’ she said on her death- 
bed, ‘ and will be pleased that I have chosen you before 
the other servants. Keep them all away from me/ 

“ It was many hours before she could be made to be- 
lieve that there was no hope for her, and when the con- 
viction was forced upon her, she cried, in a tone of great 
bitterness : 

“ ‘ This is a fatal house ! First my husband — now me ! 
Will Beatrice be the next? ’ 

“ And then she bemoaned her hard fate that she should 
have to die just at the time that a life of pleasure was 
spread before her. Yes, she spoke in that way, just as if 
she was a young girl, instead of an old woman with white 
hair. A life of pleasure! Do some people never think 
of another life, a life of rewards and punishments, ac- 
cording to their actions in this world ? The old lady was 
one of these, I am afraid. Three or four hours before she 
died she said she must speak to me quite alone, and the 
doctors accordingly left the room. 

“ ‘ I want you to tell me the truth, Denise/ she said ; 
I had to place my ear quite close to her lips to hear her. 

“ ‘ I will tell you/ I said. 

“ ‘ It would be a terrible sin to deceive a dying woman/ 
she said. 


130 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 

“ I answered I knew it was, and I would not deceive 
her. 

“ ‘ Beatrice ought to be happy/ she said ; ‘ I have done 
my best to make her so — against her own wishes ! But 
is it likely she should know better than her mother? You 
believe she will be happy, do you not, Denise ? ’ 

“ I replied that I could not doubt it ; that she had mar- 
ried a good man, against whom no person could breathe 
a word, a man who commanded respect, and who was 
looked upon by the poor as a benefactor — as indeed he 
was. 

“ ‘ That is what I thought/ said the dying woman ; 
* that is what I told her over and over again. A good 
man, a kind man, a rich man, very rich man ! And then 
we were under obligations to him; had Beatrice refused 
him he might have humiliated us. There was no other 
way to repay him.’ 

“ I could not help saying to her then that when Mr. 
Aimer rendered a service to anyone he did not look for 
repayment. 

“ ‘ Ah/ she said impatiently, ‘ but we are of noble de- 
scent, and we never receive a favour without returning 
it. All I thought of was my daughter’s happiness. And 
there was the future— hers as well as mine — it was dread- 
ful to look forward to. Denise, did my daughter ever 
complain to you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Never! ’ I answered. 

Did she ever say I was a hard mother to her — that 
I was leading her wrong — that I was selfish, and thought 
only of myself? Did she? Answer me truly.’ 

Never/ I said, and I wondered very much to hear 
her speak in that way. ‘ She never spoke a single word 
against you. If she had any such thoughts it would not 
have been proper for her to have confided them to me. 
I am only a servant.’ 

That is true/ she muttered. ‘ Beatrice has pride — 
yes, thank God, she has pride, and if she suffers can suffer 
in silence. But why should she suffer? She has every- 
thing — everything ! I torment myself without cause. 
You remember the letter my daughter gave you to post — 
the one to M. Gabriel ? ’ 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 131 

Yes, madame ; you took it from me on the road. I 
hope I did not do wrong in parting with it. Mademoi- 
selle Beatrice desired me to post it with my own hands.’ 

You did right,’ she said. ‘ It does not matter who 
posts a letter. You did not tell my daughter I took it 
from you ? ’ 

No, madame.’ 

You are faithful and judicious,’ she said, but her 
praise gave me no pleasure. ‘ If I had lived I would have 
rewarded you. You must not repeat to my daughter or 
to Mr. Aimer what I have been saying to you. Promise 
me.’ 

“ I gave her the promise, and then she said that perhaps 
she would give me a message to deliver to her daughter, 
her last message ; but she must think of it first, and if she 
forgot it I was to ask her for it. After that she was quiet, 
and spoke to no one. A couple of hours passed, and I 
asked the doctors whether she had long to live. They 
said she could not live another hour. I then told them 
that she had asked me to remind her of a message she 
wished me to give to her daughter, and whether it was 
right I should disturb her. They said that the wishes of 
the dying should be respected, and that I should try to 
make her understand that death was very near. I put my 
face again very close to hers. 

“ ‘ Can you hear me ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Who are you ? ’ she said. 

“ Her words were but a breath, and I could only under- 
stand them by watching the movements of her lips. 

“ ‘ I am Denise.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, yes,’ she replied. * Denise, that my daughter 
is fond of.’ 

“ ‘ You wished to give me a message to your daughter.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t know what it was. I have done everything 
for the best — yes, everything. And she was foolish 
enough to rebel, and to tell me that I might live to repent 
my work ; but see how wrong she was. And presently 
she said : 4 Denise, when my daughter comes home ask her 
to forgive me.’ 

“ These were her last words. Before the sun rose the 
next morning she was dead. 


132 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


“ Mr. and Mrs. Aimer arrived at the villa before she 
was buried. It was a shocking interruption to their 
honeymoon, and their appearance showed how much they 
suffered. It was as if the whole course of their lives had 
been turned ; tears took the place of smiles, sorrow of joy. 
And how different was the appearance of the village ! 
No feasting, no music and dancing; everybody was seri- 
ous and sad. 

“And all within one short month ! 

“ I gave Mrs. Aimer her mother’s dying message. 
When she heard the words such a smile came upon her 
lips as I hope never again to see upon a human face, it 
was so bitterly scornful and despairing. 

“ ‘ It is too late for forgiveness,’ she said, and not an- 
other word passed between us on the subject. 

“ Mrs. Aimer did not wear mourning for her mother, 
nor did her husband wish her to do so. I remember his 
saying to her : 

“ With some races, white is the emblem of mourning ; 
not for that reason, Beatrice, but because it so well be- 
comes you, I like you best in white.’ 

“ Now, as time went on, we all thought that the sadness 
which weighed upon Mrs. Aimer’s heart, and which 
seemed to put lead into her feet, would naturally pass 
away, but weeks and months elapsed, and she remained 
the same. There used to be colour in her cheeks ; it was 
all gone now — her face was as white as milk. Her eyes 
used to sparkle and brighten, but now there was never to 
be seen any gladness in them ; and she, who used to smile 
so often, now smiled no more. She moved about like one 
who was walking slowly to her grave. 

“ Mr. Aimer made great efforts to arouse her, but she 
met him with coldness, and when he spoke to her she 
simply answered * yes ’ or ‘ no,’ and she did nothing what- 
ever to make his home cheerful and happy. 

“ This weighed upon his spirits, as it would upon the 
spirits of any man, and during those times I often saw 
him gazing upon her from a distance, when she was 
walking in the grounds, with a look in his eyes which de- 
noted how troubled he was. Then, as if some thought 
had suddenly occurred to him, he would join her, and en- 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 183 

deavour to entice her into conversation ; but she answered 
him only when she was compelled, and he became so 
chilled by her manner that soon he would himself grow 
silent, and they would pace the garden round and round 
for an hour together in the most complete silence. It 
hurt one to see it. They were never heard to quarrel, and 
the little they said to each other was said in a gentle way ; 
but that seemed to make matters worse. Much better to 
have spoken outright, so that they might have known 
what was in each other’s minds. A storm now and then 
is naturally good; it clears the air, and the sun always 
shines when it is over ; but here a silent storm was brood- 
ing which never burst, and the only signs of it were seen 
in the sad faces of those who were suffering, and who did 
not deserve to suffer. 

“ Imagine what the house was, my lady, and how we 
all felt, who loved our master, and would have loved our 
lady too, if she had allowed us. Cold as she was to us, 
we could not help pitying her. For my own part I used 
to think I would rather live in a hut with a quarrelsome 
husband who would beat and starve me, than lead such a 
life as my master and mistress were leading. 

“ Once more, after many months has passed in this 
dreadful way, my master suddenly resolved to make an- 
other attempt to alter things for the better. He locked 
up his study, and courted his wife with the perseverance 
and the love of a lover. It was really so, my lady. He 
gathered posies for her, and placed them on her desk and 
dressing-table ; he spoke cheerfully to her, taking no ap- 
parent notice of her silence and reserve; he strove in a 
thousand little delicate ways to bring pleasure into her 
life. 

“ ‘ We will ride out to-day,’ he would say. 

“ ‘ Very well,’ she would answer. 

“ He would assist her into the saddle, and they would 
ride away, they two alone, he animated by but one desire 
— to make her happy ; and they would return after some 
hours, the master with an expression of suffering in his 
face which he would strive in vain to hide, and she, sad, 
resigned, and uncomplaining. But that silence of hers ! 
That voice so seldom heard, and, when heard, so gentle, 


134 THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 


and soft, and pathetic ! I would rather have been beaten 
with an oak stick every day of my life than have been 
compelled to endure it, as he was compelled. For there 
was no relief or escape for him except in the doing - of 
what it was not in his nature to do — to be downright cruel 
to her, or to find another woman to love him.. He would 
have had no difficulty in this, had he been so minded. 

“ Still he did not relax his efforts to alter things for the 
better. He bought beautiful books, and pictures, and 
dresses, and pet animals for her ; he forgot nothing that a 
man could possibly thing of to please a woman. He had 
frequently spoken to her of inviting friends to the villa, 
but she had never encouraged him to do so. Now, how- 
ever, without consulting her, he called friends and ac- 
quaintances around him, and in a short time we were 
again overrun with company. She was the mistress of 
the house, and it would have been sinful in her to have 
neglected her duties as Mr. Aimer’s wife. Many young 
people came to the villa, and among them one day 
appeared M. Gabriel, the artist who painted the pic- 
ture. 


CHAPTER V 


A T 


THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 

T about this time it was generally known that Mr. 
Aimer expected to become a father within three 
or four months, and some people considered it 
strange that he should have selected the eve of an event 
so important for the celebration of social festivities. For 
my own part I thought it a proof of his wisdom that he 
should desire his wife to be surrounded by an atmosphere 
of cheerfulness on such an occasion. Innocent laughter, 
music, pleasant society — what better kind of medicine is 
there in the world? But it did not do my lady good. 
She moved about listlessly, without heart and without 
spirit, and not until M. Gabriel appeared was any change 
observable in her. The manner in which she received 
him was sufficiently remarkable. My lady was giving 


THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 135 

me some instructions as Mr. Aimer and a strange gentle- 
man came towards us. 

Beatrice/ said Mr. Aimer, ‘ let me introduce M. 
Gabriel to you. A friend whom I have not seen for 
years/ 

“ She looked at M. Gabriel, and bowed, and when she 
raised her head, her face and neck were crimson ; her eyes, 
too, had an angry light in them. M. Gabriel, also, whose 
natural complexion was florid, turned deathly white as 
his eyes fell upon her. 

“ Whether Mr. Aimer observed these signs I cannot 
say ; they were plain enough to me, and I did not need any- 
one to tell me that those two had met before. 

“ My lady turned from her husband and M. Gabriel in 
silence, and taking my arm walked into a retired part of 
the grounds. She could not have walked without assist- 
ance, for she was trembling violently; the moment we 
were alone her strength failed her, and she swooned dead 
away. I thought it prudent not to call or run for assist- 
ance, and I attended to her myself. Presently she recov- 
ered, and looking around with a frightened air, asked if 
any person but myself had seen her swoon. I answered 
* No/ and for a moment I thought she had some intention 
of confiding in me, but she said notjiing more than ‘ Thank 
you, Denise ; do not speak of my fainting to any person ; 
it is only that I am weak, and that the least thing over- 
comes me. Be sure that no one hears of it/ 4 No one 
shall from me, my lady/ I said. She thanked me again, 
and pressed my hand, and then we went into the house. 

“After that, there was no perceptible difference in her 
manner toward M. Gabriel than towards her other guests, 
but I, whose eyes were in a certain way opened, could 
not help observing that M. Gabriel watched with anxiety 
her every movement and every expression. The summer- 
house in which all those pictures are stored away was 
given to M. Gabriel for a studio, and there he painted and 
passed a great deal of his time. Mr. Aimer often joined 
him there, and if appearances went for anything, they 
spent many happy hours together. About three weeks 
after M. Gabriel came to the villa my master took his wife 
into the studio, and they remained there for some time. 


136 THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 


It was understood that my lady had been prevailed upon 
to allow M. Gabriel to paint her portrait. From that 
time my lady’s visits to the summer-house were frequent, 
at first always in her husband’s company, but afterwards 
occasionally alone. One day she said to me: 

“ 4 Denise, I have often wished to ask you a question, 
but till lately have not thought it worth while.’ 

“ ‘ I am ready to answer anything, my lady/ I said. 

“ ‘ One morning,’ she said, after a pause, ‘ shortly after 
my dear father died, I gave you a letter to post for me ip 
Geneva/ 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady/ I said, and it flashed upon me like a 
stroke of lightning that the letter she referred to was ad- 
dressed to M. Gabriel. Never till that moment had I 
thought of it. 

“ ‘ Did you post the letter for me, Denise, as I desired 
you? Did you do so with your own hands? Do not 
tremble. Mistakes often happen without our being able 
to prevent them— even fatal mistakes sometimes. I saw 
you drive away with the letter in your hand. You did 
not lose it ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, my lady ; but before I had gone a mile on the 
road to Geneva, your mother overtook me, and said she 
knew you had given it to me to post immediately in 
Geneva, and that as she would be at the post-office a good 
hour before me — which was true — she would put it into 
the post with other letters.’ 

“ ‘And you gave her the letter, Denise ? * 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady.’ 

“‘Did my mother desire you not to mention to me that 
she had taken the letter from you ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, my lady, but on her deathbed * 

“ I hesitated, and my mistress said, ‘ Do not fear, 
Denise ; you did no wrong. How should you know that 
a mother would conspire against her daughter’s happi- 
ness ? On her deathbed my mother spoke to you of that 
letter ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady, and asked me if I had told you that 
she had taken it from me. I answered no, and she said I 
had done right. My lady, in telling you this, I am break- 
ing the promise I gave her ; I hope to be forgiven/ 


THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 137 

“ ‘ It is right that you should tell me the truth, when 
I desire you, about an affair I entrusted to you. Had you 
told me of your own account, it might have been a sin.’ 

“ ‘ I can see, my lady, that I should not have parted 
with the letter. I am truly sorry.’ 

“ ‘ The fault was not yours, Denise : the wrong-doing 
was not yours. I should have instructed you not to part 
with the letter to anyone ; although even then it could not 
have been prevented; you could not have refused my 
mother. The past is lost to us forever.’ Her eyes filled 
with tears, and she said, ‘ We will not speak of this again, 
Denise.’ 

“And it was never mentioned again by either of us, 
though we both thought of it often enough. 

“ It was easy for me to arrive at an understanding of 
it. M. Gabriel and my mistress had been lovers, and had 
been parted and kept apart by my lady’s mother. The old 
lady had played a false and treacherous part towards her 
daughter, and by so doing had destroyed the happiness of 
her life. 

“ Whether my young lady thought that Mr. Aimer had 
joined in the plot against her — that was what puzzled me 
a great deal at the time; but I was certain that he was 
innocent in the matter, as much a victim to the arts and 
wiles of a scheming old woman as the unfortunate lady 
he had married. 

“ The motive of the treachery was plain enough. M. 
Gabriel was poor, a struggling artist, with his place to 
make in the world. My master was rich ; money and es- 
tates were his, and the old woman believed she would live 
to enjoy them if. she could bring about a marriage between 
him and her daughter. 

“ She succeeded— too well did she succeed, and she 
met with her punishment. Though she was dead in her 
grave I had no pity for her, and her daughter, also, 
thought of her with bitterness. What misery is brought 
about by the mad worship of money which fills some per- 
sons’ souls! As though hearts count for nothing! 

“ I understood it all now— my lady’s unhappiness, her 
silence, the estrangement between her and her husband. 
How often did I repeat the sad words she had uttered ! 


138 THE GATHERING OF THE STORM 

‘ The past is lost to us forever/ Yes, it was indeed true. 
Sunshine had fled ; a gloomy future was before her. 
Which was the most to be pitied — my lady, or her inno- 
cent, devoted husband, who lived in ignorance of the 
wrong which had been done ? 

“After the conversation I have just related, the be- 
haviour of my mistress toward M. Gabriel underwent a 
change; she was gracious and familiar with him, and 
sometimes, as I noticed with grief, even tender. They 
walked frequently together; she was often in his studio 
when her husband was absent. Following out in my mind 
the course of events, I felt sure that explanations had 
passed between them, and that they were satisfied that 
neither had been intentionally false to the other. It was 
natural that this should have happened ; but what good 
could come of this better understanding? Mischief was 
in the air, and no one saw it but myself. 

“ My lady recovered her cheerfulness ; the colour came 
back to her face; her eyes were brighter, life once more 
appeared enjoyable to her. Mr. Aimer was delighted and 
unsuspicious; but behind these fair clouds I seemed to 
hear the muttering of the thunder, and I dreaded 
the moment when my master's suspicions should be 
aroused. 

“As my lady’s time to become a mother drew near, 
many of the guests took their departure; but M. Gabriel 
remained. He and Mr. Aimer were the closest friends, 
and they would talk with the greatest animation about 
pictures and books. M. Gabriel was very clever; the 
rapidity with which he would paint used to surprise us ; 
his sketches were beautiful, and were hung everywhere 
about the house. Everybody sang his praises. He had 
a very sweet voice, he was a fine musician, there was not 
a subject he was not ready to converse upon. If it came 
to deep scholarship and learning I have no doubt that Mr. 
Aimer held the first place, but my master was never eager, 
as M. Gabriel was, to display his gifts, and to show off 
his brilliant qualities in society. Certainly he could not 
win ladies’ hearts as easily as M. Gabriel. These things 
are in the nature of a man, and one will play for the mere 
pleasure of winning, while another does not consider it 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 139 

worth his while to try. Of two such men I know which 
is the better and more deserving of love. 

“ Rapid worker as M. Gabriel was with his paintings 
and sketches, my lady’s portrait hung upon his hands ; he 
did not seem to be able to satisfy himself, and he was con- 
tinually making alterations. When Master Christian was 
born, his mother’s picture was still unfinished in M. Ga- 
briel’s studio. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

“J ■ lHE birth of the heir was now the most important 
event ; everything gave way to it. Congratula- 
JL tions poured in from all quarters, and it really 
seemed as if a better era had dawned. I believe I was 
the only one who mistrusted appearances ; I should have 
been easier in my mind had M. Gabriel left the villa. 
But he remained, and as long as he and my lady were 
near each other I knew that the storm-clouds were not far 
off. 

“ In a few weeks my lady got about again ; she was 
never strong, and now she was so delicate and weak that 
the doctors would not allow her to nurse her child. I was 
very sorry for this ; had her baby drawn life from her 
breast it might have diverted her attention from M. 
Gabriel. 

“ It is hard to believe that so joyful an event as the 
birth of her first child should not have softened her heart 
towards her husband. It is the truth, however ; they were 
no nearer to each other than they had been before. Mr. 
Aimer was not to blame ; he did all in his power to win his 
wife to more affectionate ways, but he might as well have 
hoped for a miracle as to hope to win a love that was 
given to another. 

“ The child throve, and it was not till he was a year old 
that the portrait of his mother was finished — the picture 
that is hanging on the wall before me. It was greatly 
admired, and my master set great store upon it. 

“ ‘ It is in every way your finest work,’ he said to M. 


140 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 


Gabriel. * Were it not that I object to my wife’s beauty 
being made a subject of criticism, I should persuade you 
to exhibit the portrait.’ 

“ Not long afterwards, M. Gabriel was called away. I 
thanked God for it. The danger I feared was removed ; 
but he returned in the course of a few weeks, and began 
to paint again in the summer-house. While he was ab- 
sent my lady fell into her former habits of listlessness; 
when he returned she became animated and joyous. 
Truly he was to her as the sun is to the flower. This 
change in her mood, from sadness to gaiety, was so sud- 
den that it frightened me, for I felt that Mr. Aimer must 
be the blindest of the blind if it did not force itself upon 
his attention. It did not escape his notice; I saw that, 
from a certain alteration in his manner toward his wife 
and his friend. It was not that he was colder or less 
friendly; but when he looked at them he seemed to be 
pondering upon something which perplexed him. He 
said nothing to them, however, to express disapproval of 
their intimacy. He was not an impulsive man, and I 
never knew him to commit himself to an important act 
without deliberation. 

“ In the midst of his perplexity the storm burst. I was 
an accidental witness of the occurrence which led to the 
tragic events of which I have yet to speak. 

“ There was at this time among our guests an old 
dowager, who did nothing but tittle-tattle from morning 
till night about her friends and acquaintances, and who 
seemed to be always hunting for an opportunity to make 
ill-natured remarks. A piece" of scandal was a great de- 
light to her. Heaven save me from ever meeting with 
another such a lady. 

“ I was in one of the wooded walks at some distance 
from the house, gathering balsam for a fellow-servant 
whose hand had been wounded, when the voice of this old 
dowager reached my ears. She was speaking to a lady 
companion, and I should not have stopped to listen had 
not Mrs. Aimer’s name been mentioned in a tone which 
set my blood tingling. 

“ ‘ It is scandalous, my dear,’ the old dowager was say- 
ing, ‘ the way she goes on with M. Gabriel. Of course, I 


141 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

wouldn’t mention it to another soul in the world but you, 
for it is not my affair. Not that it is not natural, for she 
is young, and he is young, and Mr. Aimer is old enough 
to be their father; but they really should be more dis- 
creet. I can’t make up my mind whether Mr. Aimer 
sees it, and considers it best to take no notice, or whether 
he is really blind to what is going on. Anyway, that 
does not alter the affair, so far as his wife and M. Gabriel 
are concerned. Such looks at each other, my dear! — 
such pressing of hands! — such sighs! One can almost 
hear them. It is easy to see they are in love with each 
other.’ 

'‘And a great deal more to the same effect until they 
walked away from the spot and were out of hearing. 

“ I was all of a tremble, and I was worrying myself as 
to what it was best to do when I heard another step close 
to me. 

“ It was my master, who must also have been within 
hearing. His face was stern and white, and there was 
blood on his lips as though he had bitten them through. 

“ He walked my way and saw me. 

“ ‘ How long have you been here, Denise ? ’ he asked. 

“ I could not tell him a falsehood, and I had not the 
courage to answer him. 

“ ‘ It is enough,’ he said ; ‘ you have heard what I have 
heard. Not to a living being must a word of what you 
have heard pass your lips. I have always believed that 
you had a regard for the honour of my house and name, 
and it is for that reason I have placed confidence in you. 
I shall continue to trust you until you give me cause to 
doubt your good faith. Hasten after .that lady and her 
companion who have been conversing here, and ask them 
to favour me with an interview. While I speak to them, 
remain out of hearing.’ 

“ I obeyed him in silence, and conducted the ladies to 
my master’s presence. I am in ignorance of what he said 
to them, but that evening an excuse was made for their 
sudden departure from the villa. They left, and did not 
appear again. 

“ Grateful as I was at the removal of this source of 
danger, I soon saw that the time I dreaded had arrived. 


142 THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

My master was in doubt whether his wife was faithful to 
him. 

“A more cruel suspicion never entered the mind of man, 
and as false as it was cruel. Mrs. Aimer was a pure 
woman ; basely wronged as she had been, she was a vir- 
tuous wife. As I hope for salvation this is my firm 
belief. 

“ But how can I blame my master ? Smarting with a 
grief which had sucked all the light out of his days, which 
had poisoned his life and his hopes, trusting as he had 
trusted, deceived as he had been deceived, with every 
offer of love refused and despised, and with, as he be- 
lieved, dishonour staring him in the face — he might well 
be pardoned for the doubt which now took possession of 
him. 

“ He planned out a course, and steadily followed it. 
Without betraying himself, he watched his wife and his 
friend, and he could not fail to see that the feelings they 
entertained for each other were stronger than the ordi- 
nary feelings of friendship which may properly be al- 
lowed between a man and a woman. I know, also, that 
he discovered that my lady, before she married him, had 
accepted M. Gabriel as her lover. This in itself was 
sufficient for him. 

“ Under such circumstances it was, in his opinion, a 
sin for any woman to plight her faith and duty to another. 
To my master the words used at the altar were, in the 
meaning they conveyed, most sacred, solemn and binding. 
For a woman to utter them, with the image of another 
man in her heart, was a fearful and unpardonable crime. 

“ These perjuries are common enough, I believe, in the 
great world which moves at a distance from this quiet 
spot, but that they are common does not excuse them. 
Mr. Aimer had strict and stern views of the duties of life, 
and roused as he was roused, he carried them out with 
cruel effect. 

“ Gradually he got rid of all his guests, with the excep- 
tion of M. Gabriel ; and then, one fatal morning, he sur- 
prised my lady and M. Gabriel as they sat together in the 
summer-house. There was no guilt between them; they 
were conversing innocently enough, but my lady was in 


143 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

tears, and M. Gabriel was endeavouring to console her. 
Sufficient, certainly, to work a husband into a furious 
state. 

“ None of us knew what passed or what words were 
spoken; something terrible must have been uttered, for 
my lady, with a face like the face of death, tottered from 
the summer-house to this very room, where she lay in a 
fainting condition for hours. Her husband did not come 
near her, nor did he make any inquiries after her, but in 
the course of an hour he gave me instructions to have 
every sketch and painting made by M. Gabriel taken from 
the walls of the villa, and conveyed to the summer-house. 
I obeyed him, and all were removed except this portrait 
of my lady; it seemed to me that I ought not to allow it 
to be touched without her permission, and she was not in 
a fit condition to be disturbed. 

“ While this work was being accomplished no servant 
but myself was allowed to enter the studio. Two strange 
men carried the pictures into the summer-house, and these 
men, who had paint-pots and brushes with them, remained 
with Mr. Aimer the whole of the afternoon. 

“ Dinner was served, but no one sat down to it. My 
lady was in her chamber, her husband was still in the sum- 
mer-house, and M. Gabriel was wandering restlessly 
about. In the evening he addressed me. 

“ ‘ Where is Mr. Aimer ? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ In the summer-house/ I replied. 

“ ‘ Go to him/ he said, ‘ and say I desire to have a few 
words with him/ 

“ In a few minutes they confronted each other on the 
steps which led to the studio. 

“ ‘ Enter/ said my master ; ‘ you also, Denise, so that 
you may hear what I have to say to M. Gabriel, and what 
he has to say to me/ 

“ I entered with them, and could scarcely believe my 
eyes. The walls of the studio had been painted a deep 
black. Not only the walls, but the woodwork of the win- 
dows which gave light to the room. The place resembled 
a tomb. 

“ M. Gabriel's face was like the face of a corpse as he 
gazed around. 


144 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

“ ‘ This is your doing,’ he said to my master, pointing 
to the black walls. 

“ 4 Pardon me,’ said my master ; * it is none of my work. 
You are the artist here, and this is the picture you have 
painted on my heart and life. Denise, are all M. Gabriel’s 
sketches and paintings in this studio? ’ 

“ ‘ They are all here, sir,’ I replied. 

“ There was a sense of guilt at my heart, for I thought 
of my lady’s portrait. Fortunately for me my master did 
not refer to it. 

“ ‘ M. Gabriel,’ said my master to the artist, ‘ these 
paintings are your property, and are at your disposal for 
one week from this day. Within that time remove them 
from my house. You will have no other opportunity. At 
the end of the week this summer-house will be securely 
locked and fastened, and thereafter, during my lifetime, 
no person will be allowed to enter it. For yourself a car- 
riage is now waiting for you at the gates. I cannot per- 
mit you to sleep another night under my roof.’ 

“ ‘ I had no intention of doing so,’ said M. Gabriel, ‘ nor 
should I have remained here so long had it not been that 
I was determined not to leave without an interview with 
you.’ 

“ ‘ What do you require of me? ’ 

“ ‘ Satisfaction.’ 

“ ‘ Satisfaction ! ’ exclaimed my master, with a scornful 
smile. ‘ Is it not I rather should demand it ? ’ 

Demand it, then,’ cried M. Gabriel. ‘ I am ready to 
give it to you.’ 

“ ‘ I am afraid,’ said my master coldly, ‘ that it is out 
of your power to afford me satisfaction. Were you a man 
of honour events might take a different course. It is 
only lately that I have seen you in your true colours ; to 
afford you the satisfaction you demand would be, on my 
part, an admission that you are my equal. You are not; 
you are the basest of cowards. Depart at once, and do 
not compel me to call my servants to force you from my 
gates.’ 

Endeavour to evade me,’ said M. Gabriel, as he 
walked to the door, 4 in every way you can, you shall not 
escape the consequences of your conduct.’ 


145 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 

“ He carried it with a high hand, this fine gentleman 
who had brought misery into this house ; had I been a man 
I should have had a difficulty in preventing myself from 
striking him. 

“ When he was gone my master said : 

You are at liberty to repeat to your lady what has 
passed between me and M. Gabriel.’ 

“ I did not repeat it : there was such a dreadful signifi- 
cance in the black walls, and in my master’s words, that 
that was the picture M. Gabriel had painted on his heart 
and life, that I could not be so cruel to my lady as to tell 
her what had passed between the two gentlemen who held 
her fate in their hands. 

“ But she herself, on the following day, questioned me : 

“ ‘ You were present yesterday,’ she said, 4 at an inter- 
view between M. Gabriel and my husband? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady,’ I answered. 

“ ‘ Did they meet in anger, Denise ? ’ 

“ ‘ M. Gabriel was angry, my lady,’ I said. 

“ 4 And my husband ? ’ she asked. 

“ ‘ Appeared to be suffering, my lady.’ 

“ * Did they part in anger ? ’ 

“ ‘ On M. Gabriel’s side, my lady, yes.’ 

“ 4 Is M. Gabriel in the villa ? ’ 

“** No, my lady. He departed last night. 

“ ‘ Of his own accord ? ’ 

“ ‘ My master bade him go, and M. Gabriel said he in- 
tended to leave without being bidden.’ 

“ ‘ It could not be otherwise. My husband is here? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my lady.’ 

“ That was all that was said on that day. The next 
day my lady asked me again if her husband was in the villa 
and I answered ‘ Yes.’ The next day she asked me the 
same question, and I gave the same reply. The fourth 
day and the fifth she repeated the question, and my reply 
that my master had not been outside the gates afforded 
her relief. The fear in her mind was that my master and 
M. Gabriel would fight a duel, and that one would be 
killed. 

“ During these days my lady did not leave her chamber, 
nor did her husband visit her. 


146 


THE GRAVE OF HONOUR 


“ From the window of this room the summer-house can 
be seen, and my lady for an hour or two each day sat at 
the window, gazing vacantly out. 

“ On the evening of the fifth day my lady said : 

“ ‘ Denise, there have been workmen busily engaged 
about the summer-house. What are they doing ? * 

“ I bore in mind my master’s remark to me that I was 
at liberty to repeat to my lady what had been said by him 
and M. Gabriel in their last interview. It was evident 
that he wished her to be made acquainted with it, and it 
was my duty to be faithful to him as well as to my lady. 
I informed her of my master’s resolve to fasten the doors 
of the summer-house and never to allow them to be opened 
during his lifetime. 

“ ‘ There are only two more days/ she said , ‘ to-morrow 
and the next/ 

“ I prayed silently that she would not take the fancy in 
her head to visit the summer-house before it was fastened 
up, knowing the shock that the sight of the black walls 
would cause her. 

“ The next day she did not refer to the subject, but the 
next, which was the last, she sat at the window watching 
the workmen bring their tools and bars and bolts to com- 
plete the work for which they had been engaged. 

“ 4 Come with me, Denise,’ she said. ‘ A voice whis- 
pers to me that there is something concealed in the sum- 
mer-house which I must see before it is too late/ 

“ ‘ My lady,’ I said, trembling, ‘ I would not go if I 
were in your place/ 

“ I could not have chosen worse words. 

“ ‘ You would not go if you were in my place ! * she re- 
peated. ‘ Then there is something concealed there which 
it is necessary for me to see. Unless,’ she added, looking 
at me for an answer, ‘ my husband prohibits it/ 

He has not prohibited it, my lady/ 

And yet you would not go if you were in my place ! 
Cannot you see that I should be false to myself if I al- 
lowed that place to be sealed forever against me, before 
making myself acquainted with something that has taken 
place therein ? You need not accompany me, Denise, un- 
less you choose/ 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 147 

“ 4 I will go with you, my lady,’ I said, and we went out 
of the villa together. 

“We entered the summer-house, my lady first, I a few 
steps behind her. 

She placed her hands upon her eyes and shuddered, the 
moment she saw the black walls. She understood what 
was meant by this sign. 

“ But there was more to come, of which, up to that day, 
I had been ignorant. On one of the walls was painted in 
white, the words, 

44 4 The Grave of Honour/ 

“ It was like an inscription on a tomb. 

44 When my lady opened her eyes they fell upon these 
cruel words. For many minutes she stood in silence, 
with eyes fixed on the wall, and then she turned towards 
me, and by a motion of her hand, ordered me to leave the 
place with her. Never, never, had I seen such an ex- 
pression of anguish on a face as rested on hers. It was 
as though her own heart, her own good name, her own 
honour, were lying dead in that room ! There are deeds 
which can never be atoned for. This deed of my master's 
was one. 


CHAPTER VII 

HUSBAND AND WIFE 

“T^EMAIN with me, Denise/ said my lady, as we 
1^ walked back to the house. 4 1 am weak, and 
AVmay need you.” 

44 Then, for the first time, I noticed what gave me hope. 
She took her baby boy in her arms, and pressed him pas- 
sionately to her bosom, murmuring : 

44 4 1 have only you — I have only you ! ’ 

44 It was not that hitherto she had been wanting in ten- 
derness, but that in my presence she had never so yearn- 
ingly displayed it. It gladdened me also to think that 
her child was a comfort to her in this grave crisis. 

44 But the hope I indulged in was doomed to disappoint- 


148 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


ment. In the evening my lady bade me ascertain whether 
her husband was in the villa. 

“ I went to him, and made the inquiry. 

“ * Tell my wife,’ he said, in a gentle tone, * that I am 
ready to wait upon her whenever she desires it.’ 

“ It was late in the night when my lady called me to 
assist her to dress* I did so, wondering at the strange 
proceeding. She chose her prettiest dress, one which she 
had worn in her maiden days. She wore no ornaments, 
or flowers or ribbons of any colour. Simply a white dress, 
with white lace for her head and shoulders. 

“ ‘ Now go to your master,’ she said, * and say I desire 
to see him.’ 

“ I gave him the message, and he accompanied me to 
this room, where my lady was waiting to receive him, 
with as much ceremony as if he had been a stranger guest. 

“ I am here at your bidding,’ he said, and turning to 
me, 4 You can go, Denise.’ 

“ * You will stay, Denise,’ said my lady. 

“ The manner of both was stern, but there was more 
decision in my lady’s voice than in his. I hesitated, not 
knowing which of them to obey. 

“ ‘ Stay, then, Denise,’ said my master, 4 as your mis- 
tress desires it.’ 

“ I retreated to a corner of the room, as far away from 
them as I could get. I was really afraid of what was com- 
ing. Within the hearts of husband and wife a storm was 
raging, all the more terrible because of the outward calm 
with which they confronted each other. 

“ ‘ You know,’ said my lady, ‘ for what reason I desired 
to see you.* 

“ * I know,’ he replied, * that I expected you would send 
for me. If you had not, I should not have presented 
myself.’ 

“ ‘ You have in your mind,’ she said, * matters which 
concern us both, of which it is necessary you should speak.’ 

“ * It is more than necessary — it is imperative that I 
should speak of the matters you refer to.’ 

The opportunity is yours. I also have something to 
say when you have finished. The sooner our minds are 
unburdened the better it will be — for you and me.’ 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 149 

* ft were preferable,’ he added, ‘ that what we say to 
each other should be said without witnesses. Consider 
whether it will not be best that Denise should retire.’ 

There is no best or worst for me,’ she rejoined ; * my 
course is decided, and no arguments of yours can alter it. 
Denise will remain, as I bade her, and what you have to 
say must be spoken in her presence.’ 

Be it so. Denise is the most trusted servant of my 
house; I have every confidence in her. Otherwise, I 
should insist upon her leaving the room.’ 

“ ‘ It is right,’ said my lady, 4 that you should be made 
acquainted with a resolution I have come to within the 
last few hours. After this night I will never open my lips 
to you, nor, willingly, will I ever listen to your voice. 
I swear most solemnly that I am in earnest — as truly in 
earnest as if I were on my death-bed ! ’ 

“ I shuddered ; her voice and manner carried conviction 
with them. My master turned to me, and said : 

“ ‘ What you Hear must never pass your lips while your 
mistress and I are alive.’ 

“ ‘ It never shall,’ I said, shaking like a leaf. 

“ 4 When we are dead, Denise, you can please yourself.’ 
He stood again face to face with his wife. 4 Madame, it 
is necessary that I should recall the past. When I spoke 
to your lady mother on the subject of my love for you — 
being encouraged and in a measure urged to do so by her- 
self — I was frank and open with her. There was nothing 
in my life which I concealed, which I had occasion to con- 
ceal. I had grave doubts as to the suitability of a mar- 
riage with you, doubts which did not place you at a dis- 
advantage. I had not the grace of youth to recommend 
me ; there was a serious difference in our ages ; my habits 
of life were staid and serious. You were fit to be the wife 
of a prince; your youth, your beauty, your accomplish- 
ments, entitled you to more than I could offer — which was 
simply a life of ease and the homage of a faithful heart. 
Only in one respect were we equal — in respect of birth. 
Had I not been encouraged by your mother, I should not 
have had the temerity to give expression to my feelings ; 
but I spoke, and for me there was no retreating. I begged 
your lady mother not to encourage me with false hopes, 


150 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


but to be as frank with me as I was with her. Of the 
doubts which disturbed me, one was paramount. You 
had moved in the world — you had been idolised in society 
— and it scarcely seemed possible that your heart could be 
disengaged. In that case, I informed your lady mother 
that no earthly consideration could induce me to step be- 
tween you and your affections; nay, with all the force 
which earnestness could convey, I offered to do all in my 
power — if it were possible that my services could avail — 
to aid in bringing your life to its happiest pass. At such 
a moment as this, a solemn one, madame, which shall 
never be forgotten by you or by me, I may throw aside 
false delicacy, and may explain the meaning of these last 
words to your mother. Having had in my hands the set- 
tlement of your father’s affairs, I knew that you were 
poor, and my meaning was, that if any money of mine 
could assist in bringing about a union between you and the 
object of your affections — did any such exist — it was 
ready, cheerfully offered and cheerfully given for such a 
purpose. I made but one stipulation in the matter — that 
it should never, directly or indirectly, be brought to your 
knowledge.’ 

“ He paused, in the expectation that his wife would 
speak, and she said coldly : 

“ ‘ You are doubtless stating the truth.’ 

“ 1 The simple truth, madame, neither more nor less ; 
and believe it or not, as you will, it was your welfare, not 
mine, that was uppermost in my mind. Your lady mother 
assured me that before you came to the villa your heart 
was entirely free, but that since you honoured me by be- 
coming my guest, you had fixed your affections upon 
myself. My astonishment was great ; I could scarcely be- 
lieve the evidence of my senses. I entreated your lady 
mother not to mislead me, and she proved to me — to me, to 
whom the workings of a woman’s heart were as a sealed 
book — in a hundred different ways, which she said I might 
have discovered for myself if I had had the wit — that you 
most truly loved me. She professed to be honoured by 
my proposal, which she accepted for you, and which she 
said you would joyfully accept for yourself. But she 
warned me not to be disappointed in the manner in which 


151 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 

you would receive me ; that your pride and shame might 
impel you to appear reluctant instead of joyful, and that 
it behoved me, as a wise man — Heaven help me ! — to put 
a right and sensible construction on the natural maidenly 
reserve of a young- girl. The rest you know. The wise 
man, madame, has been sadly at fault ; it has been fatally 
proved to him that he knows little of the workings of the 
human heart.’ 

“ She held up her hand as a sign that she wished to 
speak, and he paused. A little thing struck me at the 
time, which has never passed out of my mind. She held 
up her hand in front of the lamp, and the light shone 
through the thin, delicate fingers. Seldom do I think of 
my lady without seeing that slight, beautiful hand, with 
the pink light shining through it. 

“ ‘ My mother,’ she said, ‘ did not speak the truth. M. 
Gabriel and I were affianced before I became your 
guest.’ 

“ ‘ Your information comes too late,’ said my master; 

* you should have told me so much when I offered you my 
name. It would have been sufficient. I should not have 
forced myself upon you, and shame and sin would have 
been avoided.’ 

“ 4 There has been no sin,’ said my lady, 4 and who 
links me with shame brings shame upon himself. I have 
been wronged beyond the hope of reparation in this life. 
Before you spoke to me of marriage I wrote to M. Gabriel 
frequently from this villa. My letters were inter- 
cepted ’ 

“ He interrupted her. ‘ To my knowledge no letters 
were intercepted; I had no suspicion of such a pro- 
ceeding.’ 

“ I do not say you had ; I am making you acquainted 
with a fact. Hurt and vexed at receiving no reply to my 
letters, and being able to account for it only on the sup- 
position that they had not come into his possession, I 
wrote one and gave it to Denise to post for me. That 
also, as I learnt after my mother’s death, was intercepted, 
and never reached its destination. In the meantime, false 
information was given to me respecting M. Gabriel; 
shameful stories were related to me, in which he was the 


152 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


principal actor. He was vile and false, as I was led to be- 
lieve ; and you were held up to me as his very opposite, as 

noble, chivalrous, generous, disinterested ’ 

“ ‘ In all of which you will bear in mind, I was in no 
way inculpated, being entirely ignorant of what was 
going on under my roof.’ 

“ ‘ And I was, besides, led to believe by my mother that 
you had laid us under such obligations that there was but 

one repayment of them ’ 

“ ‘ Plainly speaking/ he interposed, ‘ that, in any kind- 
ness I had shown, I was deliberately making a purchase, 
that in every friendly office I performed, I had but one 
cowardly end in view. It needed this to complete the 
story/ 

“ ‘ My heart was almost broken/ she continued, making 
no comment on his bitter interruption ; ‘ but it was pointed 
out to me that I could at least answer the call of gratitude 
and duty. Doubly did my mother deceive me/ 

“ ‘ And doubly/ said my master, ‘ did you deceive me/ 
“ ‘ When, some time after our unhappy marriage, you 
introduced M. Gabriel into this house, I was both angry 
and humiliated. It looked as though you intended to in- 
sult me, and Denise was a witness of my agitation. It 
was not unnatural that, remaining here, your guest — 
bidden by you, not by me — for so long a time explana- 
tions should pass between M. Gabriel and myself. Then 
it was that my eyes were really opened to the pit into 
which I had been deliberately dragged/ 

“ ‘ Not by me were you dragged into this pit/ 

“ ‘ Let it pass for a moment/ she said, in a disdainful 
voice. ‘ When my eyes were opened to the truth, how 
was I to know that you had not shared in the plot against 
me ? How am I to know it now ? ’ 

“ ‘ By my denial. Doubt me if you will, and believe 
that I tricked to obtain you. I shall not attempt to unde- 
ceive you. No good purpose would be served by a suc- 
cessful endeavour to soften your feelings towards me ; I do 
not, indeed, desire that they should be softened, for no 
link of love can ever unite us. It never did, and never 
can, and I am not a man to live upon shams. If I tricked 
to obtain you, you will not deny that I have my reward — 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 153 

a rich reward, the rank fruit of which will cling to me and 
abide with me till the last moment of my life.’ 

“ ‘ I went into the summer-house this afternoon/ she 
said. 

“ ‘ I know it/ 

“ 4 It was your intention that I should visit it/ 

“ ‘ It was not exactly my intention ; I left it to chance/ 
You have made it a memorial of shame, of a cruel 
declaration against me ! ’ 

“ ‘ I have made it a memorial of my own deep unhappi- 
ness. That studio will never again be opened during your 
life and mine. Madame, in all that you have said — and I 
have followed you attentively — you have not succeeded in 
making me believe that I have anything to reproach my- 
self for. My blindness was deplorable, but it is not a re- 
proach. My actions were distinguished at least by abso- 
lute candour and frankness. Can you assert the same? 
You loved M. Gabriel before you met me — was I to blame 
for that? You were made to believe he was false to you 
— was I to blame for that? You revenged yourself upon 
him by accepting my hand, and I, unversed in woman’s 
ways, believed that no pure-minded woman would marry 
a man unless she loved him. I still believe so. When we 
stood before the altar, I was happy in the belief that your 
heart was mine ; and certainly from that moment, your 
faith, your honour, were pledged to me, as mine was 
pledged to you. M. Gabriel was my friend. I was a 
man when he was a boy, and I became interested in him, 
and assisted him in his career. We had not met for 
years ; he knew that I had married ’ 

“ ‘ But he did not know,’ interrupted my lady, ‘ that you 
had married me ! 9 

“ * Granted. Was I to blame for that? After our mar- 
riage you fell into melancholy moods, which I at first 
ascribed to the tragic fate of your parents. Most sin- 
cerely did I sympathise with you. Day after day, night 
after night, did I ponder and consider how I could bring 
the smile to your lips, how I could gladden your young 
heart. Reflect upon this, madame, in the days that are 
before you, and reflect upon the manner in which you re- 
ceived my attentions. At one time, when I had invited to 


154 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


the villa a number of joyous spirits in the hope that their 
liveliness and gaiety would have a beneficial effect upon 
you, I received a letter from M. Gabriel with reference to 
a picture he was painting. I invited him here, and he 
came. What was his duty, what was yours, when you 
and he met in my presence, when I introduced you to 
each other, for the first time as I thought? Madame, if 
not before him, at least before you, there was but one 
honest course. Did you pursue it? No; 'you received 
M. Gabriel as a stranger, and you permitted me to rest in 
the belief that until that day you had been unconscious of 
his existence. Without referring to my previous suffer- 
ings — which, madame, were very great — in what position 
did I, the husband, stand in relation to my wife and 
friend, who, in that moment of introduction, tacitly con- 
spired against my honour, and who, after explanations 
had passed between them, met and conversed as lovers? 
Their guilt was the more heinous because of its secrecy — 
and utterly, utterly unpardonable because of their treach- 
ery towards him who trusted in them both. A double! 
betrayal! But at length the husband’s suspicions were 
aroused. In a conversation which he accidentally over- 
heard between two ladies who were visiting him — the 
name of his wife — your name, madame — was mentioned 
in connection with that of M. Gabriel; and from their 
conversation he learnt that their too friendly intimacy 
had become a subject for common talk. Jealous of his 
honour, and of his name, upon which there had hitherto 
been no blot, he silenced the scandal-mongers ; but from 
that day he more carefully observed his wife and his 
friend, until the truth was revealed. Then came retribu- 
tion, and a black chapter in the lives of three human be- 
ings was closed — though the book itself is not yet com- 
pleted/ 

“ He paused, a long time as it seemed to me, before he 
spoke again. The silence was awful, and in the faces of 
the husband and the wife there were no signs of relenting. 
They bore themselves as two persons might have done 
who had inflicted upon each other a mortal wrong for 
which there was no earthly forgiveness. From mv heart 
I pitied them both. 


THE COMPACT 


155 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE COMPACT 

“‘^TOU sent for me, madame,’ he said presently/ 
Y 4 because it was necessary that some explanation 
JL should be given of the occurrences that have 
taken place in my family, of which you are a member. 
Each of us has reason to regret an alliance which has 
caused us so much suffering. Unfortunately for our hap- 
piness and our peace of mind the truth has been spoken 
too late; but it were idle now to waste time in lamenta- 
tions. There are in life certain bitter trials which must 
be accepted ; in that light I accept the calamity which has 
fallen upon us, and which, had I known before our mar- 
riage what I know now, would most surely have been 
averted. It was in your power to avert it; you did not 
do so, but led me blindly into the whirlpool. You have 
informed me that, after this night, you will never open 
your lips to me, nor ever again listen to my voice.’ 

44 4 Nor will 1/ she said, 4 from the rising of to-morrow’s 
sun.’ 

44 4 1 shall do nothing to woo you from that resolve. 
But you bear my name, and to some extent my honour is 
still in your keeping.’ 

44 4 Have you, then,’ she asked, 4 any commands to give 
me? ’ 

44 4 It will depend,’ he replied, 4 upon what I hear from 
you. So far as my honour is concerned I intend to exer- 
cise control over you ; no farther.’ 

44 4 Your honour is safe with me, as it has always 
been.’ 

“ 4 1 will not debate the point with you. You say that 
you have decided on your course, and that no arguments 
of mine will turn you from it.’ 

44 4 Yes ; my course is decided. Am I free to go from 
yopr house ? ’ 

44 4 You are not free to go. Only one thing shall part 
us — death ! ’ 


156 THE COMPACT 

“ ‘ We have a child/ she said, and her voice, for that 
moment, insensibly softened. 

“ ‘ Is he asleep? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes/ 

“ He went into the inner room, and remained there for 
several minutes, and my lady, with a white and tearless 
face, waited for his return. 

“ I thought I heard the sound of kisses in the bedroom, 
but I could not be sure. There was, however, a tender 
light in my master’s eyes when he came back, a light 
which showed that his heart was touched. 

“ ‘ Our child shall remain with you/ he said to my lady, 
‘ if you wish/ 

“ ‘ I do wish it/’ she said. 

“ ‘ I will not take him from you, only that I must some- 
times see him.’ 

“ ‘ He shall be brought to you every day.’ 

“ ‘ I am content. Let him grow up to love me or hate 
me, as the prompting of his nature and your teaching 
shall direct. From my lips he shall never hear a dis- 
paraging word of his mother.’ 

“ ‘ Nor shall he, from my lips, of his father.’ 

“ He bowed to her as he would have bowed to a prin- 
cess, and said : 

“ ‘ I thank you. But little, then, remains to be said. 
We are bound to each other irrevocably, and we cannot 
part without disgrace. We have brought our griefs upon 
ourselves, and we must bear them in silence. The cur- 
rents of my life are changed, and these gates shall never 
again be opened to friends. I have done with friendship 
as I have done with love. I ask you what course you 
have determined upon ? ’ 

“ ‘ I propose/ said my lady, ‘ to make these rooms my 
home, if you will give them to me to live in.’ 

“ ‘ They are yours/ he replied. ‘ Unless I am com- 
pelled by duty, or by circumstances which I do not at 
present foresee, I will never enter them during your life- 
time.’ 

“ ‘ It is as I would have it,’ she said. ‘ In daylight I 
shall not leave them. If I walk in the grounds it shall be 
at nightfall. Outside your gates I will never more be 


THE COMPACT 157 

seen, nor will I allow a friend or an acquaintance to visit 
me. Will you allow Denise to wait upon me? ’ 

She is your servant, and yours only, from this mo- 
ment. 1 am pleased that you have selected her.’ 

Denise/ said my lady to me, 4 are you willing to 
serve me ? ’ 

Yes, my lady/ I answered. I was almost choked 
with sobs, while they were outwardly calm and unmoved. 

“ ‘ Then there is nothing more to be said — except fare- 
well.’ And my lady looked towards the door. 

“ He did not linger a moment. He bowed to her cere- 
moniously, and left the room. 

“ When he was gone I felt as if some sudden and fear- 
ful shock must surely take place, as if a thunderbolt would 
fall and destroy us, or as if my lady would fall dead at my 
feet, the silence that ensued was so unearthly. But 
nothing occurred, and when I had courage to look up I 
saw my lady sitting in a chair, white and still, with a re- 
signed and determined expression on her face. It would 
have been a great relief to me if she had cried, but there 
was not a tear in her eyes. 

44 4 Do you believe me guilty, Denise ? ’ she asked. 

44 4 The saints forbid,’ I cried, 4 that such a wicked 
thought should enter my mind! I know you to be an 
innocent, suffering lady.’ 

44 4 You will do as you have been bidden to do, Denise. 
While my husband and I are living you will not speak of 
what has passed within this room.’ 

44 4 1 will not, my lady.’ 

44 And never again was the subject referred to by either 
of us. She did not make the slightest allusion to it, and 
I did not dare to do so. 


158 STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 


CHAPTER IX 

MOTHER DENISE HAS STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 

" A NEW life now commenced for us — a inew and 

ljL dreadful life. Mr. Aimer gave orders that no 

jl JL person was to be admitted to the villa without 
his express permission. He denied himself to every 
chance visitor, and from that time until you came, my 
lady, no friend of the family, except a great banker, and 
occasionally Master Pierre Lamont, both of whom came 
upon business, ever entered the gates. The doctor, of 
course, when he was needed ; but no one else. 

“ Mr. Aimer passed most of his time in his study, writ- 
ing and reading, and pacing to and fro as he used to do 
in times gone by. He did not make any enquiries about 
my lady, nor did she about him. She lived in these 
rooms, and, in my remembrance, did not stir out of them 
during the day. Master Christian slept in the inner room 
there, and was free to roam about as he pleased. 

“ Every morning I took the child to his father, who 
sometimes would kiss him and send him back to my lady, 
and sometimes would say : 

“ ‘ You can leave him with me, Denise, for an 
hour.’ 

“ Then he would take the child into the study, and lock 
the door, and nurse and sing to him. I was in the habit 
of seeing him thus engaged as I walked backwards and 
forwards in the grounds in front of the study, waiting 
for his summons to carry master Christian to his 
mother. 

“ His was not a happy childhood, for when he began to 
speak and think, the estrangement between his parents 
puzzled him deeply, and made him sad. He was con- 
tinually asking questions to which he received replies 
which perplexed him more and more. With childlike, 
innocent cunning he strove to draw them to each other. 
When he was with my lady, it was : 

“ ‘ Mamma, why do you not go and speak to papa ? 


STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 159 

There he is walking in the garden. Come out with me, 
mamma — come quickly, or papa will be gone/ 

“ And when he was with his father he would say : 

“ ‘ Papa, I have a message for you/ 

Yes, Christian/ my master would say. 

You are to take hold of my hand, and come with me 
immediately to mamma. Yes, papa, indeed, immediately ! 
She wants to speak to you/ 

“ Mr. Aimer knew that this was nothing but invention 
on the child’s part. 

“ What they learnt of each other’s health and doings 
came through Master Christian ; it is very hard, my lady, 
to stop a child’s innocent prattle. 

44 ‘ Papa, I wish to tell you something.’ 

“ 4 Tell me, Christian.’ 

“ 4 Mamma has a bad headache — such a bad, bad head- 
ache ! I have been smoothing her forehead with my hand, 
but it will not go away for me. You cured my headache 
last week ; come and cure mamma.’ 

“ And at another time : 

44 4 Papa, is not this beautiful ? 9 

44 * Yes, Christian, it is very pretty/ 

44 4 Mamma painted it for me. Do you know, papa, she 
has painted me — yes, my portrait, and has put it in a 
book. It is exactly like — you could not tell it from me 
myself. Shall I ask her to give it to you — or will you 
come and ask for it yourself ? ’ 

“ With my lady it was the same. 

“ 4 Mamma, papa has been writing all day long. I 
peeped through the window, and he looked so tired — just 
as you look sometimes. Now, mamma, tell me — do you 
think papa is happy ? ’ 

44 4 Mamma, see what papa has given me — a musical- 
box ! Only because I said to him I should like a musical- 
box ! Is he not good ? ’ 

44 And so it went on day after day, week after week, 
but the child’s eager, anxious love brought them no nearer 
to each other. 

44 In the dark nights when the weather permitted, my 
lady walked in the grounds. At first I offered to accom- 
pany her, but she refused my company. 


160 STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 


“ * 1 will walk alone, Denise.’ 

“ The servants used to say, as the moonlight fell on her 
white dress : 

“ ‘ She looks like a white ghost/ 

“ And at other times : 

“ ‘ She is like a white shadow moving in the moon’s 
light.’' 

“ Her husband was careful to keep out of her sight 
when she indulged in these lonely rambles. They would 
not make the slightest advance to each other. 

“ I must not forget to tell you what occurred about a 
month after this estrangement. The duties of my attend- 
ance on my lady did not keep me with her during the night 
unless she was ill, and was likely to require my services. 
Generally I waited till I saw her abed and asleep. She 
retired early, and this afforded me an opportunity of look- 
ing after the room occupied by my husband and my- 
self. 

“ I remember that on this night I drew the blind aside 
after I was undressed, and looked toward my master’s 
study. There were lights in the windows, as usual. I 
was not surprised, for Mr. Aimer frequently sat up the 
whole night through. 

“ I went to bed, and soon fell asleep. 

“ Quite contrary to my usual habit, I woke up while it 
was dark, and heard the sound of the clock striking the 
hour. I counted the strokes, from one to twelve. It was 
midnight. 

“ I was such a good sleeper — seldom waking till the 
morning, when it was time to get up — that I wondered to 
myself what it was that awoke me. The striking of the 
clock? Hardly — for that was no new sound. What, 
then? Gusts of wind were sweeping round the walls of 
the villa. ‘ Ah,’ I thought, ‘ it was the wind that dis- 
turbed me ; ’ and I settled myself for sleep again, when 
suddenly another sound — an unusual one this time — 
made me jump up in bed. The sound was like that of a 
heavy object jumping, or falling, from a height within 
the grounds. 

Can it be robbers,’ T thought, 4 who have climbed 
the gates, and missed their footing? ’ 


STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 161 

“ The thought alarmed me, and I woke my husband, 
and told him what I had heard. He rose, and looked out 
of the window. 

Mr. Aimer is up and awake/ said he. ‘ If there 
were any cause for alarm he would not be sitting quietly 
in his study, poring over his books. What you heard is 
the wind. Robbers, indeed! I pity the thief who tries 
to pass our dogs ; he would be torn to pieces. There ! let 
me get to sleep, and don’t disturb me again with your 
foolish fancies ; and get to sleep yourself as quick as you 
can. Now your head is stirring, you’ll be imagining all 
sorts of things/ 

“ That was all the satisfaction I could get out of him ; 
the next moment he was fast asleep again. 

“ It was no easy thing for me to follow his example. 
I lay thinking and thinking for an hour or more. I was 
glad my husband had mentioned the dogs ; in my alarm I 
had forgotten them. Martin was quite right. Any 
stranger who attempted to pass them would have been 
torn to pieces. 

“ Well, but there was somebody walking on the gravel- 
paths ! I heard soft footsteps crunching the stones, step- 
ping cautiously, as though fearful of disturbing the people 
in the house. These sounds came to my ears between the 
gusts of wind, which were growing stronger and stronger. 

“ I was on the point of rousing my husband again 
when it occurred to me that it might be my master, who, 
restless as usual, was walking about the grounds. 

“ This explanation quieted me, and I was soon asleep. 
For how long I cannot say, for suddenly I found myself 
sitting up in bed, wide awake, listening to the wind, 
which was shaking the house to its foundations. And 
yet the impression was so strong upon me that it was not 
the storm that had frightened me, that I went to the win- 
dow and looked out, expecting to see Heaven only knows 
what. Nothing was to be seen, and presently I reasoned 
myself out of my fears, and was not again disturbed dur- 
ing the night. 

“ In the morning a strange discovery was made. A 
servant came running to me before 1 was dressed, with 
the information that our two dogs were dead. I hurried 


162 STRANGE FANCIES IN THE NIGHT 


to the kennel and saw their bodies stretched out, cold and 
stiff. 

“ Mr. Aimer was very fond of these dogs, and I went 
to him and told him what had occurred. There was a 
strange, wild look in his eyes which I attributed to want 
of sleep. But stranger than this weary, wild expression 
was the smile on his lips when he heard the news. 

“ He followed me to the kennel, and stooped down. 

“ ‘ They are quite dead, Denise,’ he said. 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘ but who could have done such a 
cruel thing ? ’ 

“ ‘ The dogs have been poisoned,’ he said, ‘ here is the 
meat that was thrown to them. There is still some white 
powder upon it.’ 

“ ‘ Poisoned ! ’ I cried. * The wretches.’ 

“ ‘ Whoever did this deed,’ said my master, * deserved 
to die. It is as bad as killing a human creature in cold 
blood.’ 

“ ‘ Are you sure, sir,’ I said, ‘ there has been nothing 
stolen from the house ? ’ 

“ ‘ You can go and see, Denise.’ 

“ I made an examination of the rooms. Nothing had 
been taken from them. I tried the door of my master’s 
study to examine that room also, but it was locked. When 
I returned my master was still kneeling by the dogs. 

“ ‘ It does not appear that anything has been taken,’ I 
said, ‘ but the sounds I heard in the night prove that there 
have been robbers here.’ 

“ ‘ What sounds did you hear ? ’ asked my master, look- 
ing up. 

“ I told him of my alarm, and of my waking my hus- 
band, and of my fancies. 

“ ‘ Fancies ! ’ he said ; ‘ yes — it could have been nothing 
but imagination. I have been up the whole night, and 
had there been an attempt at robbery, I must surely 
have known it. Were any of the other servants dis- 
turbed?” 

“ ‘ No, sir.’ 

“ 1 had already questioned them, but they had all slept 
soundly and had heard nothing. I had been also with 
my lady for a few moments, but she had not been dis- 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S CHILD-LIFE 163 

turbed during the night by anything but the howling of 
the wind. 

“ ‘ Le t the matter rest,’ said my master; ‘ it will be best.' 
It is my wish that you do not speak of it. The dogs are 
dead, and nothing can restore them to life. Evirdeeds 
carry their own punishment with them ! The next time 
you are frightened by fancies in the night, and see a light 
in my study, you may be satisfied that all is well.’ 

So the dogs were buried, and no action was taken to 
punish their murderers; and in a little while the whole 
affair was forgotten. 


CHAPTER X 

CHRISTIAN ALMER'S CHILD-LIFE 

“ rriHE years went by in the lonely villa without any 
change, except that my lady grew into the 
JL habit of taking her walks in the grounds later 
in the night. Not a word was exchanged between her 
and her husband; had seas divided them they could not 
have been further apart from each other. 

“ A dreadful, dreary monotony of days. The direction 
and control of the house was left entirely to me ; my mas- 
ter took not the slightest interest in what was going on. 
I should have asked to be relieved from the service, had 
it not been for my affection for my mistress. To live 
with her — as I did for years, attending upon her daily — 
without loving her was not possible. Her gentleness, 
her resignation, her resolution, her patience, were almost 
beyond belief with those who were not constant witnesses 
of her lonely, blameless, suffering life. 

“ She never wrote or received a letter. She severed 
herself entirely from the world, and these rooms were her 
living grave. 

“ She loved her child, but she did not give way to any 
violent demonstration of feeling. I observed, as the lad 
grew up, that he became more and more perplexed by the 
relations which existed between his parents. Had one or 
the other been unkind to him, he might have been able to 


164 CHRISTIAN ALMER’S CHILD-LIFE 


put a reasonable construction upon the estrangement, but 
they were equally affectionate, equally tender towards 
him. He continued to exercise the prettiest cunning to 
bring them together, but without avail. Without avail, 
also, the entreaties he used. 

“ ‘ Mamma, the sun is shining beautifully. Do come 
out with me and speak to papa. Do, mamma, do ! See, 
he is walking in the garden/ 

“ ‘ Mamma, may I bring papa into your room ? Say 
yes. I am sure he would be glad.’ 

“ ' Papa, mamma is really very ill. I do so wish you 
would see her and speak to her! There, papa, I have 
hold of your hand. Come, papa, come ! ’ 

“ It was heart-breaking to hear the lad, who loved both, 
who received love from both. 

“ ‘ Mamma,’ he said, ‘ are you rich ? ’ 

“ ‘ In what way, dear child ? ’ she asked, I have no doubt 
wondering at his question ; ‘ in money ? Do you mean 
that ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, ma^ma, I mean that/ 

“ * We are not in want of money, Christian/ 

“ ‘ Then you can buy whatever you want, mamma/ 

“ ‘ I want very little, Christian.’ 

“ ‘ But if you wanted a great deal,’ he persisted, * you 
have money to pay for it ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Christian.’ 

“ ‘ And papa, too? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, and papa too/ 

“ ‘ I can’t make it out,’ he said. * Yesterday, I saw a 
poor little girl crying. I asked her what she was crying 
for, and she said her mamma was in great trouble because 
they had no money. I asked her if money would make 
her mamma happy, and she said yes. Then why does it 
not make you happy ? ’ 

“ ‘ Would you like some money, Christian,’ said my 
lady, ‘ to give to this poor girl’s mamma ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, mamma.’ 

“ Here is my purse. Denise will go with you at 
once.’ 

“We went to the cottage, and found that the family 
were in deep distress. The father was in arrears with 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S CHILD-LIFE 165 

his rent, having been unable to work, through illness, for 
a good many weeks ; he was now strong enough to return 
to his employment, but he was plunged into such diffi- 
culties that all his courage had deserted him. The mother 
was weak with overpowering anxiety, and the children 
were in want of food. 

“ I saw that the family were deserving of assistance, 
and I directed Master Christian what to give them. He 
visited them daily for a week and more, and the roses 
came back to the children’s cheeks, and the hearts of the 
father and mother were filled with hope and gladness. 

“ ‘ Mamma,’ said Master Christian, * you have no idea 
how happy they are — and all because I gave them a little 
money. They play and sing together — yes, mamma, all 
of them ; it is beautiful to see them. They call me their 
good angel.’ 

“ ‘ I am very glad you have made them happy, my dear,’ 
said my lady. 

“ ‘ Mamma, they are happy because they love each 
other, and because they laugh and sing together. Let me 
be your good angel, mamma, and papa’s. Tell me what 
to do, so that we may live like those poor people ! ’ 

“ These were hard things for parents to hear, and 
harder because no answers could be given to them. 

“ We went out for a stroll every fine day for an hour or 
so, and when Master Christian saw a child walking be- 
tween father and mother, who smiled at each other and 
their little one, and spoke pleasantly and kindly one to the 
other, his eyes would fill with tears. He would peep 
through cottage windows — nay, he would go into the cot- 
tages, where he was always welcome, and would furnish 
himself with proofs of domestic happiness which never 
gladdened his heart in his own home. With scanty food, 
with ragged clothes, the common peasant children were 
enjoying what was denied to him. 

“ He had one especial friend, a delicate child, who at 
length was laid on a bed of sickness from which he never 
rose. Master Christian, for a few weeks before this child 
died, visited him daily in my company, and took the poor 
little fellow many comforting things, for which the humble 
family were very grateful. My young master would stand 


166 CHRISTIAN ALMER’S CHILD-LIFE 


by the bedside of the sick child, and witness, in silent pain, 
the evidences of paternal love which lightened the load of 
the little sufferer. 

“ The day before the child died we approached the cot- 
tage, and Master Christian peeped through the window. 
The child was dying, and by his bedside sat the sorrowing 
parents. The man’s arm was round the woman’s waist, 
and her head was resting on her husband’s shoulder. We 
entered the cottage, and remained an hour, and as we 
walked home Master Christian said : 

“‘If I were dying, would my mamma and papa sit like 
that ? ’ 

“ I could find no words to answer this question, which 
showed what was passing in Master Christian’s mind. 

“ ‘ Cannot you tell me,’ said Master Christian, ‘ whether 
my rich parents would do for me what that little boy’s 
poor parents are doing for him? It is so very much, 
Denise — so very, very much ! It is more than money, for 
money is no use in Heaven, where he is going to. I wish 
my mamma and papa had been poor ; then they would have 
lived together and have loved each other. Denise, tell me 
what it all means.’ 

“ ‘ Hush, Master Christian,’ I said, trying to soothe 
him, for his little bosom was swelling with grief. ‘ When 
you are a man you will understand.’ 

“ ‘ I want to understand now — I want to understand 
now ! ’ he cried. ‘ There is something very wicked about 
our house. I hate it — I hate it ! ’ 

“ And he stamped his foot, and broke into a fit of sob- 
bing so charged with sorrow that I could not help sob- 
bing with him. 

“ Something of this must have reached his parents’ 
ears, and how they suffered only themselves could have 
known. My master grew thin and wan; dark circles 
came round his -eyes, and they often had a wild look in 
them which made me fear he was losing his senses. And 
mv lady drooped and drooped, like a flower planted in 
unwholesome soil. Paler and quieter she grew every 
day ; sweeter and more resigned, if that were possible, with 
every setting of the sun ; so weak at last that she could 
not take her walk in the grounds. 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S CHILD-LIFE 167 

“ Sitting by the window, looking at the lovely sky, she 
said to me one peaceful evening : 

“ ‘ I shall soon be there, Denise/ 

Oh, my lady ! * was all I could say. 

“‘It rejoices me to think/ she said, ‘that this long 
agony is coming to an end. I pray that the dear child I 
shall leave behind me will not suffer as I have suffered, 
that his life may be happy, and his end be peaceful. 
Denise, my mother is in that invisible spirit-land to which 
I am going. When she sees me coming, will she not be 
frightened to meet me? for, if it had not been for her, all 
this misery would have been averted/ 

My lady/ I said — so saint-like was her appearance 
that I could have knelt to her, ‘ let me go to my master 
and bring him to you/ 

He would not come/ she said, ‘ at your bidding, 
Denise. Has he not been often entreated by our child ? ’ 

“ Believing that this was a sign of relenting on her part, 
I said: 

“ ‘ He knows that I dare not deceive him. He will 
come if I say you sent for him/ 

“ ‘ Perhaps, perhaps/ she said ; ‘ but I would not have 
him come yet. When I summon him here he will not 
refuse me/ 

“ ‘ You will send for him one day, my lady? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Denise, unless I die suddenly in my sleep — an 
end I have often prayed for. But this great blessing 
may be denied to me/ 

“ Ah, how sad were the days ! It fills me with grief, 
even now, to speak of them. All kinds of strange notions 
entered my head during that time. I used to think it 
would be a mercy if a terrible flood were to come, or if 
someone would set fire to the villa. It would bring these 
two unhappy beings together for a few minutes at least. 
But nothing happened; the days were all alike, except 
that I saw very plainly that my lady could not live through 
another summer. She was fading away before my eyes. 

“ The end came at last, when Master Christian was 
nearly nine years old. 


168 


A PROMISE TO HER SON 


CHAPTER XI 

BEATRICE ALMER GIVES A PROMISE TO HER SON 

“TT was a spring morning, and my lady was alone. 

Master Christian was in the woods with his father ; 

i he was to be home at noon, and my lady was watch- 
ing for him at her window. 

“ Exactly at noon the lad returned, beaming with de- 
light ; the hours he spent with his father were memorable 
hours in his life. 

“ ‘ You have enjoyed yourself, Christian,’ said my lady, 
drawing her boy to her side, and smoothing his hair. ‘ It 
does you good to go out with papa.’ 

“ * Yes, mamma,’ said the lad, in his eager, excited 
voice. ‘ There is no one in the world like papa — no man, 
I mean. He knows everything — yes, mamma, every- 
thing ! There isn’t a thing you ask him that he can’t tell 
you all about it. We have had such a beautiful walk ; 
the forests are full of birds and squirrels. Papa knows 
the name of every bird and flower. See, mamma, all 
these are wild flowers — papa helped me to gather them, 
and showed me where some of the prettiest are to be 
found. You should hear him talk about the flowers ! He 
has told me such wonderful, wonderful things about 
them! I believe they live as we do, and that they have 
a language of their own. Papa smiled when I said I 
thought the flowers were alive, and he told me that the 
world was full of the loveliest mysteries, and that, al- 
though men thought themselves very wise, they really 
knew very little. Perhaps it is so — with all men but papa. 
It is because he isn’t vain and proud that he doesn’t set 
himself above other men. In the middle of the woods 
papa stopped and said, as he waved his hand around, 
“ This, Christian, is Nature’s book. Not all the wisdom 
of all the men in all the world could write one line of it. 
That little bird flying in the air to the nest which it has 
built for its young, and which is so small that I could hold 
it in the palm of my hand, is in itself a greater and more 


169 


A PROMISE TO HER SON 

marvellous work than the united wisdom of all mankind 
shall ever be able to produce.” There, mamma, you 
would hardly believe that I should remember papa’s 
words ; but I repeated them to myself over and over again 
as we walked along — they sounded so wonderful ! 
Mamma, are there flowers in heaven ? ’ 

Yes, my dear,’ she answered, gazing upwards, ‘ for- 
ever blooming.’ 

Then it is always summer there, mamma? ’ 

Yes, dear child — it is the better land on which we 
dwell in hope. Peace is there, and love.’ 

We shall all go there, mamma? ’ 

Yes, dear child — one day.’ 

“ ‘ And shall live there in peace and love ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Christian.’ 

Mamma,’ said the child solemnly, ‘ I shall be glad 
when the day comes on which you and papa and I shall be 
together there, in peace and love. Mamma, you are cry- 
ing. I have not hurt you, have I ? ’ 

No, dear child, no. To hear you speak gives me 
great joy.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, but I can’t speak like papa. He has told me of 
that better world, and though I can’t understand all he 
says, I know it must be very beautiful. Papa is a good 
man. I love him more than any other man — and I love 
you, mamma, better than any other woman. Papa is a 
good man, is he not, mamma ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my child,’ said my lady, ‘ your father is a good 
and a just man.’ 

“ My heart leapt into my throat as I heard her speak 
these words of her husband. Was it possible that this 
dreadful estrangement was to end, and that my master 
and his wife would at length be reconciled, after all these 
weary years? 

“ My lady was lying back in her chair, gazing nOw at 
her boy, now at the bright clouds which were floating in 
the heavens. Ah, my lady, if we were but to follow God’s 
teaching, and learn the lessons He sends us every day 
and every hour, how much unhappiness should we be 
spared! But it seems as if there was a wicked spirit 
within us which is continually dropping poison into the 


170 


A PROMISE TO HER SON 


fairest things, for the mere pleasure of destroying their 
beauty and making us wretched. 

“ There was an angelic expression on my lady’s face as 
she encouraged her boy to speak of his father. 

“ ‘ I have often wished to tell you,’ said Master Chris- 
tian, ‘ that papa is not strong — not as strong as I am. 
He soon gets tired, while I can run about all day. This 
morning he often stopped to rest, and once he threw him- 
self upon the ground, and fell fast asleep. I sat by his 
side and listened to the birds, who were all so happy, 
while papa’s face was filled with pain. Yes, mamma, he 
was in great pain, and he sighed, oh, so heavily ! as though 
sleep was hurting him instead of doing him good. And 
he spoke in his sleep, and his words made me tremble. 
“ I call God to witness ” — that was what he said, mamma 
— “ I call God to witness that there was in my mind no 
design to do wrong.” And then he said something about 
sin and sorrow springing from the flower of innocence. 
A bird was flying near us, stopping to look at us, and not 
at all frightened, because I was so very, very quiet. 
“ Little bird,” I whispered, “ that my father could hold 
in the palm of his hand, do you know what he is dream- 
ing of, and will you, because he is my father and a good 
man, do something to make him happy? ” Oh, mamma, 
the bird at that very moment began to sing, and papa 
smiled in his sleep, and all the pain in his face disappeared. 
That bird, mamma, was a fairy-bird, and knew that papa 
ought not to suffer. And presently papa awoke, and 
folded me tight in his arms, and we sat there quite still, 
for a long, long time, listening to the singing of the bird. 
Oh, mamma, mamma ! why will you not love papa as I 
do? ’ 

“ Who could resist such pleading? My lady could not. 

“ ‘ My child,’ she said, ‘ I will send for papa to-mor- 
row.’ 

“‘You will — you will!’ cried the child. ‘Oh, how 
glad I am ! Papa will be here to-morrow, and we shall 
live together as poor people do, and be happy, as they 
are ! ’ He sprang from her side, ready to fly out of the 
room. ‘Shall I go and tell papa now? Yes, I may, I 
may — say that I may, mamma ! ’ 


171 


A PROMISE TO PIER SON 

Not till to-morrow, Christian. Come and sit quietly 
by me, and talk to me/ 

“ He obeyed her, though it was difficult for him to con- 
trol himself, his joy was so great. He devised number- 
less schemes in which he and his parents were to take 
part. They were to go here, and to go there — always to- 
gether. His friends were to be their friends, and they 
were to share each other’s pleasures. Rambles in the 
woods, hunting for wild flowers, visits to poor cot- 
tages — he planned all these things in the delight of his 
heart. 

“ So they passed the day, the mother and child, and 
when night came he begged again to be allowed to go to 
his father and tell him what was in store for him. But 
my lady was firm. 

No, Christian,’ she said, ‘ you must wait yet for a 
few hours. They will soon pass away. You are tired, 
dear child. Go to bed and sleep well.’ 

“ Good mamma ! beautiful mamma !’ said the lad, caress- 
ing his mother and stroking her face. 4 1 shall dream all 
night long of to-morrow ! ’ 

“ She never kissed her child with deeper tenderness 
than she did on this night. He knelt at her knees and 
said his prayers, and of his own accord ended with the 
words : ‘ And make my papa and my mamma love each 
other to-morrow ! ’ 

“ ‘ Good-night, dear child.’ 

“ ‘ Good-night, dear mamma. I want to-morrow to 
come quickly. Good-night, Denise.’ 

“ ‘ Good-night, Master Christian.’ 

“ In a few minutes he was asleep. Then my lady called 
me to her, and spoke gratefully of the manner in which I 
had performed my services to her. 

“ * You have been a good and faithful servant to me,’ 
she said, ‘ and you have helped to comfort me. Your 
duties have been difficult, and you have performed them 
well.’ 

“ ‘ My lady,’ I said sobbing ; I could not keep back my 
tears, she was so gracious and sweet, ‘ I have done noth- 
ing to deserve such thanks. If what you have said to 
Master Christian comes true I shall be very happy. For- 


172 


A PROMISE TO PIER SON 


give me for asking, but is it really true that you will send 
for my master to-morrow ? ’ 

“ ‘ It will be so, Denise, unless God in His mercy takes 
me to-night. We are in His hands, and I wait for His 
summons. His will be done! Denise, wear this cross 
in remembrance of me. I kiss it before I give it to you — 
and I kiss you, Denise ! ’ 

“ And as she put the cross round my neck, which she 
took from her own, she kissed me on the lips. Her touch 
was like an angel’s touch. 

“ Then she said, pointing to the posy which had been 
gathered in the woods by her husband and her child : 

“ ‘ Give me those flowers, you faithful woman.’ 

“ Do not think me vain or proud for repeating the 
words she spoke to me. They were very, very precious 
to me, and the sweetness has not died out of them, though 
she who uttered them is dust. 

“ I gave her the flowers, and she held them to her heart, 
and encouraged me to sit with her later than usual. Two 
or three times in the midst of our conversation, she asked 
me to go to Master Christian’s room to see if he was 
asleep, and when I told her he was sleeping beautifully, 
and that he looked like an angel, she smiled, and thanked 
me. 

“ ‘ He will grow into a noble man,’ she said, ‘ and will, 
I trust, think of me with tenderness. I often look for- 
ward and wonder what his life will be.’ 

“ ‘ A happy one, I am sure,’ I said. 

“ ‘ I pray that it may be so, and that he will meet with 
a woman who will truly and faithfully love him.’ 

“ Then she asked me if there was a light in her hus- 
band’s study, and going out into the balcony to look, I 
said there was, and said, moreover, that my master often 
sat up the whole night through, reading and studying. 

“ ‘ You have been in his service a long time, Denise,’ 
said my lady. 

‘“Yes, my lady. I was born in this house, and my 
mother lived and died here.’ 

“ ‘ Was your master always a student, Denise? ’ 

“ ‘Always, my lady. Even when he was a boy he 
would shut himself up with his books. He is not like 


173 


A PROMISE TO HER SON 

other men. From his youngest days we used to speak of 
him with wonder.’ 

“ ‘ He is very learned/ said my lady. * How shall one 
be forgiven for breaking up his life ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, my lady,’ I said, ‘ if I dared to speak ! ’ 

“ ' Speak freely, Denise ! ’ 

“ And then I described to her what a favourite my mas- 
ter was when he was a lad, and how everybody admired 
him, although he held himself aloof from people. I spoke 
of his gentleness, of his kindness, of his goodness to the 
poor, whom he used to visit and help in secret. I told 
her that never did woman have a more faithful and de- 
voted lover than my master was to her, nor a man with a 
nobler heart, nor one who stood more highly in the world’s 
esteem. 

“ She listened in silence, and did not chide me for my 
boldness, and when I was done, she said she would retire 
to rest. But she was so weak that she could scarcely rise 
from her chair. 

“ ‘ I had best remain with you to-night, my lady/ I 
said ; ‘ you may need my services.’ 

“ * It is not necessary,” she said ; ‘ I shall require noth- 
ing, and I shall be better to-morrow.’ , 

“ I considered it my duty to make my master acquainted 
with his wife’s condition, but I did not tell him of her 
intention to ask him to come to her to-morrow for fear 
that she should alter her mind. There had been disap- 
pointment and vexation enough in the house, and I would 
not add to it. 

“ I could not rest, I was so anxious about my lady, and 
an hour after I was abed, I rose and dressed myself and 
went to her room. She was on her knees, praying by the 
bedside of her child, and I stole softly away without dis- 
turbing her. 

“ Again, later in the night, I went to her room. She 
was sleeping calmly, but her breathing was so light that I 
could scarcely hear it. In the morning I helped her to 
dress, and afterwards assisted her to her favourite seat by 
the window. 

“ Master Christian was already up and about, and 
shortly after his mother was dressed he came in loaded 


174 THE LAST MEETING 

with flowers, to make the room look beautiful, he said, on 
this happy day. 

“ It was a day he was never to forget. 


CHAPTER XU 

THE LAST MEETING BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE 

u f B iHE morning passed, and my lady made no sign. 

Master Christian, flitting restlessly in and out 

JL and about the room, waited impatiently for his 
mother’s instructions to bring her husband to her. I 
offered her food, but she could not eat it. On the pre- 
vious day the doctor, who regularly attended her, had 
said that his services were required at a great distance 
from the villa, and that he should not be able to visit my 
lady on the morrow. She had replied : 

“ ‘ Do not trouble, doctor ; you can do nothing for 
me.’ 

“ And, indeed, there appeared to be no special necessity 
for his presence. My lady was not in pain; she looked 
happy and contented. But she was so quiet, so very, very 
quiet ! Not a word of complaint or suffering, not a moan, 
not a sigh. Why, therefore, did my heart sink as I gazed 
at her? 

“ At length Master Christian was compelled to speak ; 
he could no longer control his impatience. 

Mamma, do you like the way I have arranged the 
flowers? The room looks pretty, does it not? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, my child.’ 

“ ‘ I wanted it to look very bright to-day. So did you, 
did you not, mamma? Papa will be pleased when he 
comes.’ 

“ ‘ I hope so, my dear.’ 

“ 1 And I shall tell him that it is not so every day, and 
that it is done for him. Shall I go for him now ? ’ 
Presently, my dear. Wait yet a little while.’ 

But, mamma, it was to be to-day, you know, and it 
is nearly afternoon. Just look at the clock, mamma, it is 
nearly two Ah, but you are tired, and I am worry- 


THE LAST MEETING 175 

ing you ! Now I will sit quite still, and when the clock 
strikes two, you shall tell me to go for papa. Say yes, or 
look it, mamma/ 

Yes, my dear, at two o’clock you shall go. Denise 
will accompany you, for perhaps, Christian, your papa will 
think that the message comes from your affectionate 
heart, and not from me/ 

That,’ said Master Christian, ‘ is because I have tried 
to bring papa to you before. But I did it out of love, 
mamma/ 

“ ‘ I know, my dear, I know. If, when you were a 
little baby, and could not speak or think of things, I had 
reflected, it might all have been different. Perhaps I 
have been to blame/ 

“ ‘ No, mamma, you shall not say that ; I will not let 
you say that. You can’t do anything wrong, and papa 
can’t do anything wrong. Now I shall be quite still, and 
watch the clock, and I will not say another word till it 
strikes.’ 

“ He sat, as he had promised, quite still, with his eyes 
fixed on the clock, and I saw by the motion of his lips 
that he was counting the seconds. Slowly, oh, so slowly, 
the hands moved round till they reached the hour, and 
then the silver chimes were heard. First, the four divi- 
sions of the hour, then the hour itself. One, Two. In 
my ears it was like the chapel bell calling the people to 
prayer. 

“ ‘ Now, mamma ! ’ cried Master Christian, starting up. 

“ She took his pretty face between her hands, and drew 
it close to hers. She kissed his lips and his forehead, and 
then her hands fell to her side. 

“ ‘ May I go now, mamma ? ’ 

“ He saw in her eyes that she was willing he should 
bring his father , and he embraced her joyfully, and ran 
out of the room crying : 

“ ‘ Come, Denise, come ! Papa, papa ! ’ 

“ He did not wait for me, and when I arrived at the 
study door, the father and son were standing together, 
and Master Christian was trying to pull my master along. 

“ ‘ This little fellow here,’ said my master, striving to 
speak cheerfully, but his lips trembled, and his voice was 


176 


THE LAST MEETING 


husky, 4 has a strong imagination, and his heart is so full 
of love that it runs away with his tongue/ 

“ ‘ It does not, papa, it does not/ cried Master Chris- 
tian very earnestly. ‘ And it is not imagination. Mamma 
wants you to come and love her/ 

“ My master turned his enquiring eyes to my face. 

“ ‘ My lady wishes you to come to her, sir/ I said 
simply. 

“ I knew that the fewer words I spoke at such a time 
the better it would be. 

“ He did not question me. He was satisfied that I 
spoke the truth. 

“ His agitation was great, and he walked a few steps 
from me, holding Master Christian by the hand, and then 
stood still for quite a minute. Then he stooped and 
kissed his son, and suffered himself to be led to my lady’s 
room. 

“ I followed them at a little distance, and remained out- 
side my lady’s room,_ while they entered and closed the 
door behind them. It was not right that any eyes but 
theirs should witness so sacred a meeting; but though I 
denied myself the pleasure of being present, my heart was 
in my ears. It was proper that I should be within call. 
In my lady’s weak state, my services might be required. 

“ From where I stood, I heard Master Christian’s 
eager, happy voice: 

“ ‘ Mamma, mamma — here is papa ! He is come at 
last, mamma! Speak to him, and love him, as I do! 
Papa, put your arms around mamma’s neck, and kiss 
her.’ 

“ Then all was quiet — so quiet, so quiet ! Not a sound, 
not a breath. Ah, Holy Mother ! I can hear the silence 
now — I can feel it about me.! It was in this very room, 
and my lady was sitting in the chair in which you are 
seated. 

“ Suddenly the silence was broken. My master was 
calling loudly for me. 

“ ‘ Denise — Denise ! Where are you ? Come quickly, 
for God’s sake ! ’ 

“ Before the words were out of his lips, I was in the 
room. My master was looking wildly upon his wife and 


THE LAST MEETING 177 

child. The lad, with his arms about his mother, was kiss- 
ing her passionately, and crying over her. 

Mamma, mamma! why do you not speak? Here is 
papa waiting for you. Oh, mamma, say only one word ! * 

“ ‘ Is it true,’ my master whispered to me, ‘ that your 
lady sent you for me ? ’ 

“ ‘ It is true, sir,’ I replied in a low tone. 

What, then, is the meaning of this ? ’ he asked, still 
in the same unnatural whisper. ‘ I have spoken to her — 
she will not answer me. She will not even look at 
me ! ’ 

“ A sudden fear smote my heart. I stepped softly to 
my lady’s side. I gently unwound Master Christian’s 
arms from his mother’s neck. I took her hand in mine, 
and pressed it. The pressure was not returned. Her 
fingers, though still warm, were motionless. 

“‘What is it, Denise?’ my master asked hoarsely. 
‘ The truth — the truth ! ’ 

“ He read the answer in my eyes. We were gazing on 
the face of a dead woman ! 

“ Yes, she was dead, and no word had been exchanged 
between them — no look of affection — no token of forgive- 
ness. How truly, how prophetically, had she spoken to 
her husband in their last interview on this spot, eight 
years before ! * After this night I will never open my lips 

to you, nor, willingly, will I ever again listen to your 
voice ! ’ 

“ From that hour to this he had never heard the sound 
of her voice, and now that, after their long agony — for 
there is no doubt that his sufferings were as great as hers 
— she had summoned him to her, she was dead ! Ah, if 
she had only lived to say : 

“ ‘ Mine was the fault ; it was not only I who was be- 
trayed ; let there be peace and forgiveness between us ! ’ 

“ Did she know, when she called him to her, that he 
would look upon her dead face? Could she so measure 
her moments upon earth as to be certain that her heart 
would cease to beat as he entered the room at her bidding ? 
No, it could not have been, for this premeditation would 
have proclaimed her capable of vindictive passion. She 
was full of tender feeling and sweet compassion, and the 


178 


THE LAST MEETING 


influence of her child must have softened her heart to- 
wards the man who had loved and married her, and had 
done her no wrong. 

“ That she knew she was dying was certain, and she 
was willing — nay more than willing, wishful to forgive 
and to ask forgiveness as she stood upon the brink of an- 
other world. The sight of his worn and wasted face may 
have shocked her and caused her sudden death. But it 
remained a mystery whether she had seen him — whether 
her spirit had not taken flight before her husband pre- 
sented himself to her. It was a question none could 
answer. 

“ I am aware that there are people who would say that 
my lady deliberately designed this last bitter blow to her 
husband. My master did not think so. When the first 
shock of his grief was spent, his face expressed nothing 
but sorrow and compassion. He kissed her once — on 
her forehead, not on her lips — and after her eyes were 
closed and she lay, white and beautiful, upon her bed, he 
sat by her side the whole of the day and night — for a great 
part of the time with Master Christian in his arms. 

“ There were those in the villa who declared that on the 
night of her death the white shadow of my lady was seen 
gliding about the grounds, and from that day the place 
was supposed to be haunted. For my own part I knew 
that these were foolish fancies, but you cannot reason 
people out of them. 

“ The next day my master made preparations for the 
funeral. His strange manner of conducting it strength- 
ened the superstition. He would not have any of his old 
friends at the funeral, although many wrote to him. Only 
himself and Master Christian and the servants followed 
my lady to her grave. He would not allow any black 
crape to be worn, and all the female servants of the house 
were dressed, in white. 

“It caused a great deal of talk, a good many people say- 
ing that it was a sinful proceeding on the part of my mas- 
ter, and that it was a sign of joy at his wife’s death. They 
must have been blind to the grief in his face — so plainly 
written there that the tears came to my eyes as I looked 
at it — when they uttered this slander. And yet, if the 


THE LAST MEETING 179 

truth were told, if it were deeply searched for among the 
ashes in his *heart, it is not unlikely that my master was 
sorrowfully grateful that his wife’s martyrdom was at an 
end. Por her sake, not for his own, did he experience 
this sad feeling of gratitude. It was entirely in accord- 
ance with his stern sense of justice — in the exercise of 
which he was least likely to spare himself of all people 
in the world — that, while he was bowed down to the earth 
in grief, he should be glad that his wife was dead. 

“ All kinds of rumours were afloat concerning the house 
and the family. The gossips declared that on certain 
nights the grounds were filled with white shadows, mourn- 
fully following each other in a long funeral train. That 
is how the villa grew to be called The House of Shadows. 

“ It was like a tomb. Not a person was permitted to 
pass the gates. Not a servant could be prevailed upon 
to stop. All of them left, with the exception of Martin 
and myself, and my daughter, Dionetta’s mother. Dio- 
netta was not born at the time. We were glad to take Fritz 
the Fool into the place, to run of errands and do odd jobs. 
He was a young lad then, an orphan, and has been hang- 
ing about ever since. But for all the good he is, he might 
as well be at the other end of the world. 

“ The rumours spread into distant quarters, and one 
day a priest, who had travelled scores of miles for the pur- 
pose of seeing my master, presented himself at the gates, 
which were always kept locked by my master’s orders. 
I asked the priest what he wanted, and he said he must 
speak to Mr. Aimer. I told him that no person was ad- 
mitted, and that my master would see none, but he in- 
sisted that I should give his errand. I did so, and my 
master accompanied me to the gates. 

“ * You have received your answer from my servant,’ 
said my master. ‘ Why do you persist in your attempts 
to force yourself upon me ? ’ 

“ ‘ My errand is a solemn one,’ said the priest ; ‘ I am 
bidden by Heaven to come to you.’ 

“ My master smiled scornfully. ‘ What deeds in my 
life,’ he said, ‘ I shall be called upon to answer for before 
a divine tribunal, concern me, and me only. Were you 
an officer of justice you should be admitted; but you are 


180 ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 


a priest, and I do not need you. I am my own priest. 
Begone/ 

“ He was importunate, and was not so easily got rid of. 
Day after day, for two weeks, he made his appearance at 
the gates, but he could not obtain admittance, and at length 
he was compelled to forego his mission, whatever it might 
have been, and to leave without having any further speech 
with my master. 

“ Soon after he left, my master took Master Christian 
to school, at a great distance from the village, and return- 
ing alone, resumed his solitary habits. 

“ How well do I remember the evening on which he de- 
sired me not to disturb him on any account whatever, and 
to come to his study at four o’clock on the afternoon of the 
following day. At that hour, I knocked at the door, and 
received no answer. I knocked several times, and, be- 
coming alarmed, tried the handle of the door. It was un- 
locked, and I stepped into the study, and said : 

“ ‘ It is I, sir, Denise ; you bade me come at this hour/ 

“ I spoke to deaf ears. On the floor lay my master 
stone dead! 

“ He had not killed himself ; he- died’ a natural death, 
and must have been forewarned that his moments on earth 
were numbered. 

“ That is all I have to tell, my lady/’ 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 

“ A ND you have really told it very well, Mother De- 
nise,” said the Advocate’s wife ; “ with such 
JL JL sentiment, and in such beautiful language! It 
is a great talent : I don’t know when I have been so inter- 
ested. Why, in some parts you actually gave me the 
creeps ! And here is Dionetta, as white as a lily. What 
a comfort it must have been to the poor lady to have had 
a good soul like you about her! If such a misfortune 
happened to me, I should like to have just such a servant 
as you were to her,” 


ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 181 

Heaven forbid, my lady,” said Mother Denise, rais- 
ing her hands, “that such an unhappy lot should be 
yours ! ” 

“ Well, to tell you the truth,” said Adelaide, with a 
bright smile, “ I do not think it at all likely to happen. 
Of course, there is no telling what one might have to go 
through. Men are such strange creatures, and lead such 
strange lives ! They may do anything — absolutely any- 
thing ! — fight, gamble, make love without the least sin- 
cerity, deceive poor women and forsake them — yes, they 
may do all that, and the world will smile indulgently 
upon them. But if one of us, Mother Denise, makes the 
slightest trip, dear me ! what a fuss is made about it — 
how shocked everybody is! A perfect carnival for the 
scandal-mongers ! ‘ Isn’t it altogether too dreadful.’ 

‘ Did you ever hear of such a thing? ’ ‘ Would you have 

believed it of her? ’ That is what is said by all sorts of 
people. But if / happened to be treated badly I should 
not submit to it tamely — nor between you and me, Mother 
Denise, in my opinion, did the lady whose story you have 
just related.” 

“ Everything occurred,” said Mother Denise stiffly, 
“ exactly as I have described it.” 

“ With a small allowance,” said Adelaide archly, “ for 
exaggeration, and with here and there a chapter left out. 
Come, you must admit that ! ” 

“ I have omitted nothing, my lady. I am angry with 
myself for having told so much. I doubt whether I have 
not done wrong.” 

“ Mr. Christian Aimer, whom I expect every minute ! ’ 
— and Adelaide looked at her watch — “ would have been 
seriously annoyed with you if you had not satisfied my 
curiosity. Where is the harm ? To be living here, with 
such an interesting tale untold, would have been inex- 
cusable, perfectly inexcusable. But I am certain that you 
have purposely passed over more than one chapter, and I 
admire you for it. It is highly to your credit not to have 
told all you know, though it could hurt no one at this dis- 
tance of time.” 

“ What do you think I have concealed, my lady ? ” 

“ There was a certain M. Gabriel,” said Adelaide, “ who 


182 ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 


played a most important part in the story — a good many 
people would say, the most important part. If it had not 
been for him, there would have been no story to tell worth 
the hearing; there would have been no quarrel between 
husband and wife, and the foolish young lady would not 
have died, and I should not be here, listening to her story, 
and ready to cry my eyes out in pity for her. M. Gabriel 
must have been a very handsome young fellow, or there 
would not have been such a fuss made about him. There ! 
I declare you have never even given me a description of 
him. Of course he was handsome.” 

She was full of vivacity, and as she leaned forward 
towards the old housekeeper, it appeared as if, in her esti- 
mation, nothing connected with the story she had heard 
was of so much importance as this question, which she re- 
peated anxiously, “ Tell me, Mother Denise, was he hand- 
some ? ” 

“ He was exceedingly good-looking,” Mother Denise 
was constrained to reply, “ but not so distinguished in his 
bearing as my unhappy master.” 

“Tall?” 

“ Yes, tall, my lady.” 

“ Dark or fair ? But I think you gave me the impres- 
sion that he was dark.” 

“ Yes, my lady, he was dark,” replied Mother Denise, 
coldly, more and more displeased at the frivolity of the 
questions. 

“ And young, of course — much younger than Mr. 
Aimer?” 

“ Much younger, my lady.” 

“ There would be no sense in the matter otherwise ; any- 
one might guess that he was young and handsome and 
fascinating. Well, as I was about to say — I hope you will 
forgive me for flying off as I do ; my head gets so full of 
ideas that they tumble over one another — all at once this 
M. Gabriel drops clean out of the story, and we hear 
nothing more of him. If there is one thing more inex- 
plicable than another in the affair, it is that nothing more 
should be heard of M. Gabriel.” 

“We live out of the gay world, my lady ; far removed 
from it, I am happy to think. It is not at all strange that 


ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 183 

in this quiet village we should not know what became of 
him.” 

“ That is assuming that M. Gabriel went back into the 
gay world, as you call it, which is not such a bad place, I 
assure you. Mother Denise.” 

“ He could not have stopped in the village, my lady, 
without its being known.” 

“ Probably not ; but, you dear old soul ! ” said Ade- 
laide, her manner becoming more animated as that of 
Mother Denise became more frigid, “ you dear old soul, 
they always come back ! When lovers are dismissed, as 
M. Gabriel was, they always come back. They think they 
never will — they vow they never will — but they cannot 
help themselves. They are not their own masters. It is 
the story of the moth and the candle over again.” 

“ You mean, my lady,” said Mother Denise, very 
gravely, “ that M. Gabriel returned to the villa.” 

“That is my meaning exactly. What else could he 
do?” 

“ I will not say whether I am glad or sorry to disap- 
point you, my lady, but M. Gabriel, after the summer- 
house was barred up, never made his appearance again 
in the village.” 

“ Of course, under the circumstances, he could not show 
himself to everybody. It was necessary that he should be 
cautious. He had to come quietly — secretly, if you like.” 

“ He never came, my lady,” said Mother Denise, with 
determination. 

“ But he wrote, and sent his letters by a confidential 
messenger ; he did that at least.” 

“ I told you, my lady, that while my poor mistress lived 
in these rooms she never received or wrote a letter. ” 

“If that is so, his letters to her must have been inter- 
cepted.” 

“ There were no letters,” said Mother Denise, stub- 
bornly. 

“There were,” said Adelaide, smiling a reproof to 
Mother Denise. “ I know the ways of men better than 
you do.” 

“ By whom, my lady, do you suppose these imaginary 
letters were intercepted ? ” 


184 ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 

“ By her husband, of course, you dear, simple soul ! ” 

“ Mr. Aimer could not have been guilty of such an act.” 

The Advocate’s wife gazed admiringly at the house- 
keeper. “ Dionetta,” she exclaimed, “ never be tempted 
to betray your mistress’s secrets; take pattern by your 
grandmother.” 

“ She might do worse, my lady,” said Mother Denise, 
still unbending. 

“ Indeed she might. I am thinking of something. On 
the night you w*ere aroused from your sleep, and heard 
the sound of a man falling to the ground ” 

“ I only fancied it was a man, my lady ; we never learnt 
the truth.” 

“ It was a man, and he climbed the wall. And he chose 
a dark and stormy night for his adventure. He was a 
brave fellow. I quite admire him.” 

“ Admire a thief ! ” exclaimed Mother Denise, in hor- 
ror. 

“ My dear old soul, you must know it was not a thief. 
The house was not robbed, was it? ” 

“ No, my lady, nothing was taken ; but what is the use 
of speaking of it ? ” 

“ When once I get an idea into my head,” said Ade- 
laide, “ it carries me along, whether I like it or not. So, 
then — some time after you heard a man falling or jump- 
ing from the wall, you heard the sound of someone walk- 
ing in the paths outside. He was fearful of disturbing 
anyone in the house, and he trod very, very softly. I 
should have done just the same. Now can’t you guess 
the name of that man ? ” 

“ No, my lady, it was never discovered. He was a 
villain, whoever he was, to poison our dogs.” 

“ That was a small matter. What is the life of a dog — 
of a thousand dogs — when a man is in love ? ” 

“ My lady ! ” cried Mother Denise. “ What is it you 
are saying ? ” 

“ Nothing will deter him,” continued Adelaide, with 
an intense enjoyment of the old woman’s uneasiness, 
“ nothing will frighten him, if he is brave and earnest, as 
M. Gabriel was. You dear old soul, the man you heard 
in the grounds that night was M. Gabriel, and he came 


ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 185 

to see your mistress — perhaps to carry her off! This 
window is not very high ; I could almost jump from it 
myself.” 

Mother Denise pressed her hand to her side, as though 
to relieve a sudden pain ; her face was white with a newly 
born apprehension. 

“ Do you really believe, my lady,” she asked in trem- 
bling tones, “ that M. Gabriel would have dared to enter 
the grounds in the dead of night, like a thief, after what 
had occurred ? ” 

“ I certainly believe it ; it was the daring of a lover, not 
of a thief. Were any traces of blood discovered in the 
grounds ? ” 

“ None were discovered ; but if blood was spilt, the rain 
would have washed it away.” 

“ Or it could have been wiped away in the dark night ! ” 

“ Is it possible,” said Mother Denise under her breath, 
“ that you can be right, and that my master and M. Ga- 
briel met on that night ! ” 

“ The most probable occurrence in the world,” said 
Adelaide, with a pleasant smile. “ What should have 
made your old master so anxious that you should not 
speak of the sounds you heard? He had a motive, de- 
pend upon it.” 

Mother Denise, who had sunk into a chair in great 
agitation, suddenly rose, and said abruptly : 

“ My lady, this is very painful to me. Will you allow 
me to go? ” 

“ Certainly ; do* not let me detain you a moment. I 
cannot express to you the obligations you have laid me 
under by relating the history of this house and family. 
There is nothing more to do in these rooms, I believe. 
How very, very pretty they look! We must do every- 
thing in our power to make the place pleasant to the young 
master who is coming. But I think I can promise he will 
be happy here.” 

Not even Adelaide’s smiles and good-humour could 
smooth Mother Denise’s temper for the rest of the day. 

“ Mark my words, Martin,” she said to her husband, 
“ something wrong will happen before the Advocate and 
his fine lady leave the villa. She has put such horrible 


186 ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 


ideas into my head ! Ah, but I will not think of them ; it 
is treason, rank treason ! W e shall rue the day she came 
among us.” 

“Ha, ha!” chuckled the old man slyly. “You’re 
jealous, Denise, you’re jealous ! She is the pleasantest 
lady, and the sweetest spoken, and the most generous, 
and the handsomest, for twenty miles round. The whole 
village is in love with her.” 

“ And you as well as the rest, I suppose,” snapped 
Mother Denise. 

“ I don’t say that — I don’t say that,” piped Martin, 
with a childish laugh. “ Never kiss and tell, Denise, 
never kiss and tell ! If I was young arid straight ” 

“ But you’re old and crooked,” retorted Mother Denise, 
“ and your mind’s going, if it hasn’t gone already. You 
grow sillier and sillier every day.” 

A reproach the old man received with gleeful laughs 
and tiresome coughs. His worship of the beautiful lady 
was not to be lightly disturbed. 

“ The sweetest and the handsomest ! ” he chuckled, as 
he hobbled away, at the rate of half a mile an hour. “ I’d 
walk twenty mile to serve her — twenty mile — twenty 
mile ! ” 

“ And this is actually the room,” said Adelaide, walk- 
ing about it, “ in which that poor lady spent so many 
unhappy years ! Her prison ! Her grave ! Dionetta, 
my pretty one, when the chance of happiness is offered to 
you, do not throw it away. Life is short. Enjoy it. A 
great many people moralise and preach, but if you were 
to see what they do, and put it in by the side of what they 
sav, you would understand what fools those people must 
be who believe in their moralising and preaching. The 
persecuted lady whose story your grandmother has told 
us — what happiness did she enjoy in her life? None. 
Do you know why, Dionetta? Because it was life with- 
out love. Love is life’s sunshine. Better to be dead than 
to live without it ! Hark ! Is not that a carriage driving 
up at the gates ? ” 

She ran swiftly from the room, down the stairs, into 
the grounds. The gates were thrown open. A young 
man, just alighted, came towards her. She ran forward 


ARRIVAL OF CHRISTIAN ALMER 187 

to meet him, with outstretched hands, with face beaming 
with joy. He took her hands in his. 

“ Welcome, Mr. Aimer,” she said aloud, so that those 
around her could hear her. “ You have had a pleasant 
journey, I hope.” And then, in a whisper, “ Christian! ” 
“ Adelaide ! ” he said, in a tone as low as hers. 

“ Now I am the happiest woman ! ” she murmured. 
“ It is an eternity since I saw you. How could you have 
kept away from me so long ? ” 


188 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 


BOOK IV.— THE BATTLE WITH CONSCIENCE 


CHAPTER I 

LAWYER AND PRIEST 

I T happened that certain persons had selected this 
evening as a suitable occasion for a friendly visit 
to the House of White Shadows; Jacob Hartrich, 
the banker, was one of these. The banker was accom- 
panied by his wife, a handsome and dignified woman, and 
by his two daughters, whose personal attractions, en- 
hanced by their father’s wealth and their consequent ex- 
pectations, would have created a sensation in fashionable 
circles. Although in his religious observances Jacob 
Hartrich was by no means orthodox, he did not consider 
himself less a true Jew on that account. It is recognised 
by the most intelligent and liberal-minded of his race in 
the civilised countries of the world that the carrying-out 
of the Mosaic law in its integrity would not only debar 
them from social relations, but would check their social 
advancement. It is a consequence of the recognition of 
this undoubted fact that the severe ordinances of the Jew- 
ish religion should become relaxed in their fulfilment. 
Jacob Hartrich was a member of this band of reformers, 
and though his conscience occasionally gave him a twinge, 
he was none the less devoted, in a curiously jealous and 
illogical spirit, to the faith of his forefathers, to which he 
clung with the greater tenacity because his daily habits 
compelled him to act, to some extent, in antagonism with 
the decrees they had laid down. 

Master Pierre Lamont was also at the villa. His bod- 
ily ailments were more severe than usual, and the jolting 
over the rough roads, as he was drawn from his house in 
his hand-carriage, had caused him excruciating suffering. 


189 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 

He bore it with grins and grimaces, scorning to give pain 
an open triumph over him. Fritz was not by his side to 
amuse him with his humour; the Fool was at the court, 
on this last day of Gautran’s trial, as he had been on 
every previous day, hastening thence every evening to 
Pierre Lamont, to give him an account of the day’s pro- 
ceedings. 

Father Capel was there — a simple and learned ecclesi- 
astic, with a smile and a pleasant greeting for old and 
young, for rich and poor alike. A benevolent, sweet- 
natured man, who, when trouble came to his door, re- 
ceived it with cheerful resignation ; universally beloved ; 
a man whose course through life was strewn with flowers 
of charity and kindness. 

The visit of these and other guests was unexpected by 
Adelaide, and she inwardly resented the interruption to 
a contemplated quiet evening with Christian Aimer; but 
outwardly she was all affability. 

The principal topic of conversation was the trial of 
Gautran, and Pierre Lamont was enthusiastic on the 
theme. 

“ The trial will end this evening,” he said, “ and intel- 
lect will triumph.” 

“ Truth, I trust, will triumph,” said Jacob Hartrich, 
gravely. 

“ Intellect is truth’s best champion,” said Pierre La- 
mont. “ But some mortals believe themselves to be 
omniscient, and set up a standard of truth which is inde- 
pendent of proof. I understood that you were to have 
been on the jury at the trial.” 

“ I was excused,” said Jacob Hartrich, “ on the ground 
that I had already formed so strong a view of the guilt of 
the prisoner that no testimony could affect it.” 

“ Decidedly,” observed Pierre Lamont, “ an unfit frame 
of mind to take part in a judicial inquiry of great diffi- 
culty. For my own part, I would willingly have given a 
year of my life, which cannot have too many years to run, 
to have been able to be in Geneva these last few days. 
It will be long before another trial so celebrated will take 
place in our courts.” 

“ I am happy to think sp,” 


190 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 


“ It has always been a puzzle to me,” said Adelaide, 
whose feelings towards Pierre Lamont were of the most 
contradictory character — now inclining her to be exceed- 
ingly partial to him, now to detest him — “ how such vul- 
gar cases can excite the interest they do.” 

“ It is surprising,” was Pierre Lamont’s comment, 
v that the wife of an Advocate so celebrated should ex- 
press such an opinion.” 

“ There are stranger things than that in the world, 
Master Lamont.” 

“ Truly, truly,” said Pierre Lamont, regarding her with 
curiosity ; “ but cannot you understand how even these 
vulgar cases become, at least for a time, great and grand 
when the highest qualities of the mind are engaged in 
unravelling the threads which bind them ? ” 

“ No, I cannot understand it,” she replied with an 
amiable smile. “ I believe that you lawyers are only 
happy when people are murdering and robbing each 
other.” 

“ My friend the Advocate,” said Pierre Lamont, bend- 
ing gallantly, an exertion which sent a twinge of pain 
through his body, “ is at least happy in one other respect — 
that of being the husband of a lady whom none can see 
without admiring — if I were a younger man I should say 
without loving.” 

“ Pierre Lamont,” said Jacob Hartrich, “ gives us here 
a proof that love and law can go hand in hand.” 

“ Nay,” said Pierre Lamont, whose eyes and mind were 
industriously studying the face of his beautiful hostess, 
“ such proof from me is not needed. The Advocate has 
supplied it, and words cannot strengthen the case.” 

And he waved his hand courteously towards Adelaide. 

These compliments were not wasted upon her, and 
Pierre Lamont laughed secretly as he observed their 
effect. 

“ You are worth studying, fair dame,” he thought, 
“ with your smiling face, and your heart of vanity, and 
your lack of sympathy with your husband’s triumphs. If 
not with his triumphs, then not with him ! Feeling you 
must have, though it is born of selfishness. Ah ! the cur- 
tain is drawn aside. Which one, which one, you beauti- 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 


191 


ful animal ? ” His eyes travelled from one to the other in 
the room, until they fell upon Christian Aimer, whose 
eyes at that moment met those of Adelaide. “ Ah ! ” 
and he drew a deep breath of enjoyment. “ Are you the 
favoured one, my master of this House of Shadows! 
Then we must take you into the game, for it cannot be 
played without you.” 

The old lawyer was in his element, probing character 
and motive, and submitting them to mental analysis. 
Physically he was helpless amidst the animated life 
around him ; curled up in his invalid chair he was depen- 
dent for every movement upon his fellow-creatures ; de- 
spite his intellect, he was at the mercy of a hind ; but he 
was nevertheless the strongest man in all that throng, the 
man most to be feared by those who had anything to 
conceal, any secret which it behoved them to hide from 
the knowledge of men. 

“ How such vulgar cases,” he said aloud, to the aston- 
ishment of the Advocate’s wife, who deemed the subject 
dismissed, “ can excite the interest they do ! It surprises 
you. But there is not one of these cases which does not 
contain elements of human sympathy and affinity with 
ourselves. This very case of Gautran — what is its lead- 
ing feature? Love — the theme of minstrel and poet, the 
sentiment without which human and divine affairs would 
be plunged into darkness. Crimes for which Gautran is 
being tried are caused by the human passions and emo- 
tions which direct our own movements. The balance in 
our favour is so heavy when our desires and wishes clash 
with the desires and wishes of other men, that we easily 
find justification for our misdeeds. Father Capel is listen- 
ing to me with more than ordinary attention. He per- 
ceives the justice of my argument.” 

“ We travel by different roads,” said Father Capel. 
“ You do not take into account the prompting of evil 
spirits, ever on the alert to promote discord and instigate 
to crime. It is that consideration which makes me tol- 
erant of human error, which makes me pity it, which 
makes me forgive it.” 

“ I dispute your spiritual basis. All motive for crime 
springs from within ourselves,” 


192 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 


“ Nay, nay,” gently remonstrated Father Capel. 

“ Pardon me for restraining you. I was about to say 
that not only does all motive for human crime spring from 
within ourselves, but all. motive for human goodness as 
well. If your thesis that evil spirits prompt us to crime 
is correct, it must be equally correct that good spirits 
prompt us to deeds of mercy, and charity, and kindness. 
Then there is no merit in performing a good action. You 
rob life of its grace, and you virtually declare that it is 
an injustice to punish a man for murdering his fellow- 
creature. Plainly stated, you establish the doctrine of 
irresponsibility. I will not do you the injustice of be- 
lieving that you are in earnest. Your tolerance of human 
error, and your pity and forgiveness for it, spring from 
natural kindliness, as my tolerance of it, and my lack of 
pity and forgiveness for it, spring from a natural hard- 
ness of heart, begot of much study of the weakness, per- 
verseness, and selfishness of my species. In the rank soil 
of these imperfections grows that wondrous, necessary 
tree known by the name of Law, whose wide-spreading 
branches at once smite and protect. You may thank this 
tree for preserving to some extent the decencies of so- 
ciety.” 

“ Well expressed, Pierre Lamont,” said Jacob Hartrich 
approvingly. “I regret that the Advocate is not present 
to listen to your eloquence.” 

“ Ah,” said Pierre Lamont, with a scarcely perceptible 
sneer, “ does your endorsement spring from judgment or 
self-interest ? ” 

“ You strike both friend and foe,” said Father Capel, 
with much gentleness. “ It is as dangerous to agree with 
you as to dissent from you. But in your extravagant 
laudation of the profession of which you are a representa- 
tive you lose sight of a mightier engine than Law, tower- 
ing far above it in usefulness, and as a protection, no less 
than a solace to mankind. Without Religion, Law would 
be powerless, and the world a world of wild beasts. It 
softens, humanises ” 

“ Invents,” sneered Pierre Lamont, with undisguised 
contempt, “ fables which sober reason rejects.” 

“ If you will have it so, yes. Fables to divert men’s 


193 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 

minds from sordid materialism into purer channels. Be 
thankful for Religion if you practise it not. In the Sab- 
bath’s holy peace, in the hush and calm of one day out of 
the turbulent seven, in the influences which touch you 
closely, though you do not acknowledge them, in the re- 
straint imposed by fear, in the charitable feelings inspired 
by love, in the unseen spirit which softens and subdues, 
in the yearning hope which chastens grief when one dear 
to you is lost, lie the safeguard of your days and much of 
the happiness you enjoy. So much for your body. For 
your soul, I will pray to-night.” 

“ Father Capel,” said Pierre Lament in a voice of 
honey, “ if all priests were like you, I would wear a hair- 
shirt to-morrow.” 

“ What need, my son,” asked Father Capel, “ if you 
have a conscience ? ” 

“ Let me pay for my sins,” said Pierre Lamont, hand- 
ing his purse to the priest. 

Father Capel took a few francs from the purse. “ For 
the poor,” he said. “ In their name I bless you ! ” 

“ The priest has the best of it,” said Adelaide to Chris- 
tian Aimer. “ I hate these dry arguments ! It is alto- 
gether too bad that I should be called upon to entertain 
a set of musty old men. How much happier we should 
be, we two alone, even in the mountains where you have 
been hiding yourself from me ! ” 

“ You are in better health and spirits,” said Jacob Hart- 
rich, drawing Aimer aside, “ than when I last saw you. 
The mountain air has done you good. It is strange to 
see you in the old house; I thought it would never be 
opened again to receive guests.” 

“ It is many years since we were together under this 
roof,” said Christian Aimer thoughtfully. 

“ You were so young at the time,” rejoined the banker, 
“ that you can scarcely have a remembrance of it.” 

“ My remembrance is very keen. I could have been 
scarcely six years of age, and we had no visitors. I re- 
member that my curiosity was excited because you were 
admitted.” 

“ I came on business,” said Jacob Hartrich, and then, 
unwilling to revive the sad reminiscences of the young 


194 


LAWYER AND PRIEST 


man’s childhood, he said abruptly : “ Aimer, you should 
marry.” His eyes wandered to his two comely daugh- 
ters. 

“ What is that you are saying ? ” interposed the Advo- 
cate’s wife; “that Mr. Aimer should marry? If I were 
a man — how I wish I were! — nothing, nothing in the 
world would tempt me to marry. I would live a life with- 
out chain or shackle.” 

“ So, so, my fair dame,” thought Pierre Lamont, who 
had overheard this remark. “ Bright as you appear, 
there is a skeleton in your cupboard. Chains and shack- 
les ! But you are sufficiently self-willed to throw these 
oft'.” And he said aloud : “ Can you ascertain for me if 
Fritz the Fool has returned from Geneva? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Adelaide, and Dionetta being in 
the room, she sent her out to inquire. 

“ If he has returned,” said Pierre Lamont, “ the trial is 
over. I miss the fool’s nightly report of the proceedings, 
which he has given me regularly since the commencement 
of the inquiry.” 

“ If the trial is over,” said Christian Aimer, “ the Ad- 
vocate should be here.” 

“ You need not expect him so soon,” said Pierre 
Lamont ; “ after such exertion as he has gone through, 
an hour’s solitude is imperative. Besides, Fritz can travel 
faster than our slow-going horses; he is as fleet as a 
hare.” 

“ A favourite of yours, evidently.” 

“ I have the highest respect for him. This particular 
fool is the wisest fool in my acquaintance.” 

Dionetta entered the room with Fritz at her heels. 

“ Well, Fritz,” called out Pierre Lamont, “ is the trial 
over ? ” 

“ Yes, Master Lamont, and we’re ready for the next.” 

“The verdict, Fritz, the verdict?” eagerly inquired 
Pierre Lamont, and everybody in the room listened anx- 
iously for the reply. 

“ If I were a bandy-legged man,” said Fritz, ignoring 
the question, “ I would hire some scoundrel to do a deed, 
so that you might be on one side and my lord the Advo- 


THE WHITE SHADOW 195 

cate on the other. Then we should witness a fine battle 
Of brains.” 

“Come, Fritz — the verdict!” repeated Pierre Lamont 
impatiently. 

“ On second thoughts,” said Fritz quietly, “ you would 
be no match for the greatest lawyer living. I would not 
have you on my side. It is as well that your pleading 
days are ended.” 

“No fooling, Fritz. The verdict; Acquitted?” 

“What else? Washed white as driven snow.” 

“ I knew it would be so,” cried the old lawyer trium- 
phantly. “ How was it received ? ” 

“ The town is mad about it. The women are furious, 
and the men thunderstruck. You should have heard the 
speech ! Such a thing was never known. Men’s minds 
were twisted inside out, and the jury were convinced 
against their convictions. Why, Master Lamont, even 
Gautran himself for a few minutes believed himself to be 
innocent ! ” 

“ Enough,” said Christian Aimer sternly. “ Leave the 
room.” 

Fritz darted a sharp look at the newly returned master, 
and with a low bow quitted the apartment. The next 
moment the Advocate made his appearance, and all eyes 
were turned towards him. 


CHAPTER II 

THE WHITE SHADOW 

H E entered the room with a cloud upon his face. 
Gautran’s horrible confession had deeply moved 
him, and, almost for the first time in his life, ‘he 
found himself at fault. His heart was heavy, and his 
mind was troubled ; but he had never yet lost his power of 
self-control, and the moment he saw his guests the mask 
fell over his features, and they assumed their usual tran- 
quil expression. He greeted one and another with calm- 
ness and courtesy, leaving his wife and Christian Aimer 
to the last, 


196 


THE WHITE SHADOW 


“ I am happy to tell you, Adelaide,” he said, “ that the 
trial is over.” 

“ Oh, we have already had the news,” she said coldly. 
“ Fool Fritz has given us a glowing account of it, and 
the excitement the verdict created.” 

v Did it create excitement ? ” he asked. “ I was not 
aware of it.” 

“ I take no interest in such cases, as you are aware,” 
she rejoined. “ You knew the man was innocent, or you 
would not have defended him. It is a pity the monster 
is set free.” 

“ Last, but not least,” said the Advocate, turning to 
Christian Aimer, and cordially pressing his hand. “ Wel- 
come, and again welcome ! You have come to stay? ” 

Adelaide answered for him : 

“ Certainly he has ; I have his promise.” 

“ That is well,” said the Advocate. “ I am glad to see 
you looking so bright, Christian.” 

“You have not derived much benefit from your holi- 
day,” said Christian Aimer, gazing at the Advocate’s pale 
face. “ Was it wise to take upon yourself the weight of 
so harassing a trial ? ” 

“ Do we always do what is wise ? ” asked the Advocate, 
with a smile in which there was no light. 

“ But seldom, I should say,” replied Aimer. “ I once 
had great faith in the power of Will ; but I am beginning 
to believe that we are as completely slaves to independent 
forces as feathers in a fierce wind : driven this way or 
that in spite of ourselves. Not inward, but outward mag- 
netism rules us. Perhaps the best plan is to submit with- 
out a struggle.” 

“ Of course it is,” said Adelaide with a bright look, “ if 
it is pleasant to submit. It is ridiculous to make one’s 
head ache over things. I can teach you, in a word, a 
wiser lesson than either of you have ever learnt.” 

“ What is that word, Adelaide ? ” asked the Advocate. 

“ Enjoy,” she replied. 

“ A butterfly’s philosophy. What say you, Christian ? 
Shall we follow the teaching of this Solon in petticoats ? ” 

“May I join you?” said Pierre Lamont, who had 
caused himself to be drawn to this group. “ My infirmi- 


THE WHITE SHADOW 197 

ties make me a privileged person, and unless I thrust 
myself forward, I might be left to languish like a decrepit 
spider in a ruined web.” 

“ Ill-natured people,” remarked Adelaide, “ might say 
that your figure of speech is a dangerous one for a lawyer 
to employ.” 

“ Fairest of dames,” said Pierre Lamont, “ your arrows 
are sugar-tipped ; there is no poison in them. Use me as 
your target, I beg. You put new life into this old frame.” 

“ The old school can teach the new,” said Christian 
Aimer. “ You should open a class of gallantry, Master 
Lamont.” 

“ I ! with my useless limbs ! You mock me ! ” 

“ He will not allow me to be angry with him,” said 
Adelaide, smiling on the lawyer. 

Then Pierre Lamont drew the Advocate into a conver- 
sation on the trial which the Advocate would gladly have 
avoided, could he have done so without being considered 
guilty of a breach of courtesy. But Pierre Lamont was 
not a man to be denied, and the Advocate was fain to 
answer the questions put to him until the old lawyer was 
acquainted with every detail of the line of defence. 

“ Excellent — excellent ! ” he exclaimed. “ A master- 
stroke ! You do not share my enthusiasm,” he said, ad- 
dressing Jacob Hartrich, who had stood silently by, 
listening to the conversation. “ You have no understand- 
ing of the intense, the fierce delight of such a battle and 
such a victory.” 

“ The last word is not spoken here on earth,” said 
Jacob Hartrich. “ There is a higher tribunal.” 

“ Well said, my son,” said Father Capel. 

“ Son ! ” said Pierre Lamont to the banker, with a little 
scornful laugh. “ Resent the familiarity, man of another 
faith.” 

“ Better any faith than none,” warmly remarked Jacob 
Hartrich, cordially taking the hand which Father Capel 
held out to him. 

“ Good ! good ! good ! ” cried Pierre Lamont. “ I stand 
renounced by church and synagogue.” 

“ You are uncharitable only to yourself,” said Father 
Capel. “ I, for one, will not take you at your word.” 


198 


THE WHITE SHADOW 


Pierre Lamont lowered his eyes. “ You teach me hu- 
mility, ’’ he said. 

“ Profit by it,” rejoined Father Capel. 

“ You formed the opinion that Gautran was guilty,” 
said Pierre Lamont to the banker. “ Upon what evi- 
dence ? ” 

“ Inward conviction,” briefly replied Jacob Hartrich. 

“ You, at least,” said Pierre Lamont, turning his wily 
face to Father Capel, “ although you look at human affairs 
through Divine light, have a respect for the law.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” was the reply. 

“ But this man of finance,” said Pierre Lamont, “ would 
destroy its very fabric when it clashes with his inward 
conviction. Argue with him, and your words fall against 
a steel wall, impenetrable to logic, reason, natural deduc- 
tion, and even common sense — and behind this wall lurks 
a self-sufficient imp which he calls Inward Conviction. 
Useful enough, nay, necessary, in religion, for it needs no 
proof. Faith answers for all. Accept, and rest content. 
I congratulate you, Jacob Hartrich. But does it not oc- 
cur to you that others, besides yourself, may have inward 
convictions antagonistic to yours, and that occasionally 
theirs may be the true conviction and yours the false? 
Our friend the Advocate, for instance. Do you think it 
barely possible that he would have undertaken the defence 
of Gautran unless he had an inward conviction, formed 
upon a sure foundation, that the man was innocent of the 
crime imputed to him ? ” 

It was with some indignation that Jacob Hartrich re- 
plied, “ That a man of honour would voluntarily come 
forward as a defender under any conditions than that of 
the firmest belief in the prisoner’s innocence is incredible.” 

“We agree upon this point I am happy to know, and 
upon another — that in the profession to which I have the 
honour to belong, there are men whose actions are guided 
by the highest and finest principles, and whose motives 
spring from what I conceive to be the most ennobling of 
all impulse, a desire for justice.” 

“ Who can doubt it ? ” 

“ How, then, stands the case as between you and my 
brother the Advocate? You have an inward conviction 


199 


THE WHITE SHADOW 

of Gautran’s guilt — he an inward conviction of Gautran’s 
innocence. Up to a certain time you and he are on an 
equality ; your knowledge of the crime is derived from 
hearsay and newspaper reports. Upon that evidence you 
rest ; you have yoilr business to attend to — the value of 
money, the fluctuations of the Exchanges, the public 
movements which affect securities, in addition to the anx- 
ieties springing from your private transactions. The 
Advocate cannot afford to depend upon hearsay and the 
newspapers. It is his business to investigate, to unearth, 
to bring together the scattered bones and fit them one with 
another, to reason, to argue, to deduce. As all the powers 
of your mind are brought to bear upon your business, 
which is money, so all the powers of his mind are brought 
to bear upon his, which is Gautran, in connection with 
the crime of which he stands accused. His inward convic- 
tion of the man’s innocence is strengthened no 1 less by the 
facts which come to light than by the presumptive evi- 
dence he is enabled by his patience and application to 
bring forward in favour of his client. You and he are no 
longer on an equality. He is a man informed, you re- 
main in ignorance. He has dissected the body, and all 
the arteries of the crime are exposed to his sight and 
judgment. You merely raise up a picture — a dark night, 
a river, a girl vainly struggling with her fate, a murderer 
(with veiled face) flying from the spot, or looking with 
brutal calmness upon his victim. That is the entire ex- 
tent of your knowledge. You seize a brush — you throw 
light upon the darkness — you paint the river and the girl 
— you paint the portrait of the murderer, Gautran. All 
is clear to you. You have formed your own court of jus- 
tice, imagination affords the proof, and prejudice is the 
judge. It is an easy and agreeable task to find the pris- 
oner guilty. You are satisfied. You believe you have 
fulfilled a duty, whereas you have been but a stumbling- 
block in the path of justice.” 

“ Notwithstanding which,” said Jacob Hartrich, who 
had thoroughly recovered his good humour, “ I have as 
firm a conviction as ever in the guilt of Gautran the wood- 
man.” 

“ Admonish this member of a stiff-necked race, Father 


200 


THE WHITE SHADOW 


Capel,” said Pierre Lamont, “ and tell him why reason 
was given to man.” 

Earnest as the old lawyer was in the discussion, and 
apparently engaged in it to the exclusion of all other sub- 
jects, he had eyes and ears for everything that passed in 
the room. Retirement from the active practice of his 
profession had by no means rusted his powers; on the 
contrary, indeed, for it had developed in him a finer and 
more subtle capacity of observation. It gave him time, 
also, to devote himself to matters which, at an earlier 
period of his life, he would have considered trivial. Thus, 
when he moved in private circles, freed from larger 
duties, there lurked in him always a possible danger, and 
although he would not do mischief for mischief’s sake, he 
was irresistibly drawn in its direction. The quality of his 
mind was such as to seek out for itself, and unerringly 
detect, human blemish. He was ready, when it was pre- 
sented to him, to recognise personal goodness, but while 
he recognised he did not admire .it. The good man was 
in his eyes a negative character, pithless, uninteresting; 
his dominant qualities, being on the surface, presented no 
field for study. He himself, as has already been seen, 
was not loth to bestow money in charity, but he was desti- 
tute of benevolence ; his soul never glowed with pity, nor 
did the sight of suffering touch his heart. While good- 
ness did not attract him, he took no interest in the profli- 
gate or dissolute. His magnet was of the Machiavellian 
type. Cunning, craft, duplicity, guile — here he was at 
home in his glory. As easy to throw him off the scent as 
a bloodhound. 

Chiefly on this occasion was his attention given to the 
Advocate’s wife. Not a movement, not a gesture, not a 
varying shade of expression escaped him. Any person, 
noting his observance of her, would have detected in it 
nothing but admiration ; and to this conclusion Adelaide 
herself — she knew when she was admired — was by no 
means averse. But his eye was upon her when she was 
not aware of it. 

“ Have I not heard of a case,” asked a guest of Pierre 
Lamont, “ in which a lawyer defended a murderer', know- 
ing him to be guilty ? ” 


THE WHITE SHADOW 201 

“ Yes,” said Pierre Lamont, “ there was such a case. 
The murder was a ruthless murder ; the lawyer a man of 
great attainments. His speech to the court was eloquent 
and thrilling, and in it he declared his solemn belief in the 
prisoner’s innocence, and made an appeal to God to 
strengthen the declaration. It created a profound impres- 
sion. But the evidence was conclusive, and the prisoner 
was found guilty. It then transpired that the accused, 
in his cell, had confessed to his advocate that he had per- 
petrated the murder.” 

“ Confessed before his trial ? ” 

“ Yes, before the trial.” 

“ What became of the lawyer? ” 

“ He was ruined, socially and professionally. A great 
career was blighted.” 

“ A deserved punishment,” remarked Father Capel. 

“ Yet it is an open question,” said Pierre Lamont, 
“ whether the secrets of the prison-cell should not be held 
as sacred as those of the confessional.” 

“ Nothing can justify,” said Father Capel, “ the em- 
ployment of such an appeal, used to frustrate the ends of 
justice.” 

“ Then,” said Pierre Lamont with malicious emphasis, 
“ you admit the doctrine of responsibility. Your prompt- 
ing of evil spirits, what becomes of it ? ” 

Father Capel did not have time to reply, for a cry of 
terror from a visitor gave an unexpected turn to the gos- 
sip of the evening, and diverted it into a common channel. 
The person who had uttered this cry was the youngest 
daughter of Jacob Hartrich. She had been standing at 
a window, the heavy curtains of which she had held aside, 
in an idle moment, to look out upon the grounds, which 
were wrapped in a pall of deep darkness. Upon the ut- 
terance of her terrified scream she had retreated into the 
room, and was now gazing with affrighted eyes at the 
curtains, which her loosened hold had allowed to fall over 
the window. Her mother and sister hurried to her side, 
and most of the other guests clustered around her. What 
had occasioned her alarm ? When she had sufficiently re- 
covered she gave an explanation of it. She was looking 
out, without any purpose in her mind, “ thinking of 


202 


THE WHITE SHADOW 


nothing,” as she expressed it, when, in a distant part of 
the grounds, there suddenly appeared a bright light, which 
moved slowly onward, and within the radius of this light, 
of which it seemed to form a part, she saw distinctly a 
white figure, like a spirit. The curtains of the window 
were drawn aside, and all within the room, with the ex- 
ception of Pierre Lamont, who was left without an audi- 
ence, peered into the grounds below. 

Nothing was to be seen ; no glimpse of light or white 
shadow; no movement but the slight stir of leaf and 
branch, but the young lady vehemently persisted in her 
statement, and, questioned more closely, declared that the 
figure was that of a woman; she had seen her face, her 
hair, her white robe. 

The three persons whom her story most deeply im- 
pressed were the Advocate’s wife, Christian Aimer, and 
Father Capel. With the Advocate it was a simple delu- 
sion of the senses ; with Jacob Hartrich, “ nerves.” Chris- 
tian Aimer and Father Capel went out to search the 
grounds, and when they returned reported that nothing 
was to be seen. 

During this excitement Pierre Lamont was absolutely 
unnoticed, and it was not till a groan proceeded from the 
part of the room where he sat huddled up in the wheeled 
chair in which he was imprisoned that attention was di- 
rected to him. He was evidently in great pain ; his fea- 
tures were contracted with the spasms which darted 
through his limbs. 

“ It almost masters me,” he said to the Advocate, as he 
laughed and winced, “ this physical anguish. I will not 
allow it to conquer me, but I must humour it. I am 
tempted to ask you to give me a bed to-night.” 

“ Stop with us by all means,” said the Advocate ; “ the 
night is too dark, and your house too far, for you to leave 
while you are suffering.” 

So it was arranged, and within 'half an hour all the 
other guests had taken their departure. 


THE WATCH ON THE HILL 


203 


CHAPTER III 

THE WATCH ON THE HILL 

F OR more than twenty years the House of White 
Shadows may be said to have been without a his- 
tory. Its last eventful chapter ended with the 
death of Christian Aimer’s father, the tragic story of 
whose life has been related by Mother Denise. Then 
followed a blank — a dull uniformity of days and months 
and years, without the occurrence of a single event worthy 
of record in the annals of the family who had held the 
estate for four generations. The doors and windows of 
the villa were but seldom opened, and on those rare occa- 
sions only by Mother Denise, who had too strict a regard 
for the faithful discharge of her duties to allow the costly 
furniture to fall into decay. Suddenly all this was altered. 
Light and life reigned again. Startling was the trans- 
formation. Within a few short weeks the House of 
White Shadows had become the centre of a chain of 
events, in which the affections which sway and the pas- 
sions which dominate mankind were displayed in all their 
strangest variety. 

At a short distance from the gate, on this dark night, 
upon the rise of a hill which commanded a view of the 
villa, sometimes stood and sometimes lay a man in the 
prime of life. Not a well-looking man, nor a desirable 
man, and yet one who in his better days might have 
passed for a gentleman. Even now, with the aid of 
fine feathers, he might have reached such a height in 
the judgment of those who were not given to close ob- 
servation. His feathers at the present time were any- 
thing but fine — a sad fall, for they have been once such 
as fine birds wear ; no barn-door fowl’s, but of the part- 
ridge’s quality. So that, between the man and his gar- 
ments, there was something of an affinity. He was tall 
and fairly presentable, and he bore himself with a certain 
air which, in the eyes of the vulgar, would have passed 
for grace. But his swagger spoilt him; and his sensual 


204 


THE WATCH ON THE HILL 


mouth, which had begot a coarseness from long and un- 
restrained indulgence, spoilt him ; and the blotches on his 
face spoilt him. His hands were white, and rings would 
have looked well on them, if rings ever looked well on the 
hands of a man — which may be doubted. 

As he stood, or lay, his eyes were for the chief part of 
his time fixed on the House of White Shadows. Follow- 
ing with precision his line of sight, it would have been 
discovered that the point which claimed his attention were 
the windows of the Advocate’s study. There was a light 
in them, but no movement. 

“ Yet he is there,” muttered the man, whose name was 
John Vanbrugh, “ for I see his shadow.” 

His sight unassisted would not have enabled him to 
speak with authority upon this, but he held in his hand a 
field-glass, and he saw by its aid what would otherwise 
have been hidden from him. 

“ His guests have gone,” continued John Vanbrugh, 
“ and he has time to attend to me. I have that to sell, 
Edward, which it is worth your while to purchase — nay, 
which it is vital you should purchase. Every hour’s de- 
lay increases its price. It must be near midnight, and 
still no sign. Well, I can wait — I can wait.” 

He had no watch to take count of the time, which 
passed slowly ; but he waited patiently nevertheless, until 
the sound of footsteps, approaching in his direction, 
diverted his attention. They came nearer, nearer, until 
this other wanderer of the night was close upon him. 

“ Who,” he thought, “ has taken it into his head to 
come my way? This is no time for honest men to be 
about.” 

And then he said aloud — for the intruder had paused 
within a yard of him : 

“ What particular business brings you here, friend, and 
why do you not pass on ? ” 

A sigh of intense relief escaped the breast of the new- 
comer, who was none other than Gautran. With the cuff 
of his shirt he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, 
and muttered in a grateful tone : 

“ A man’s voice ! That is something to be thankful 
for.” 


THE WATCH ON THE HILL 205 

The sound of this muttering, but not the words, reached 
Vanbrugh’s ears. 

“ Well, friend? ” said Vanbrugh, who*, being unarmed, 
felt himself at a disadvantage. 

“ Well? ” repeated Gautran. 

“ Are you meditating an attack upon me ? I am not 
worth the risk, upon my honour. If you are poor, behold 
in me a brother in misfortune. Go to a more profitable 
market.” 

“ I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“ I’ll take your word for it. Pass on, then. The way 
is clear for you.” 

He stepped aside, and observed that Gautran took step 
with him instead of from him. 

“ Are you going to pass on ? ” asked Gautran. 

“ Upon my soul this is getting amusing, and I should ' 
enjoy it if I were not angry. Am I going to pass on? 
No, I am not going to pass on.” 

“ Neither am I.” 

“ In the name of all that is mischievous,” cried Van- 
brugh, “ what is it you want? ” 

“ Company,” was the answer, “ till daylight. That is 
all. You need not be afraid of me.” 

“Company!” exclaimed Vanbrugh. “My com- 
pany ? ” 

“ Yours or any man’s. Something human — something 
living. And you must talk to me. I’m not going to be 
driven mad by silence.” 

“ You are a cool customer, with your this and that. 
Are you aware that you are robbing me ? ” 

“ I don’t want to rob you.” 

“ But you are — of solitude. And you appropriate it ! 
No further fooling. Leave me.” 

“ Not till daylight.” 

“ There is something strange in your resolve. Let me 
have a better look at you.” 

He laid his hand upon Gautran’s shoulder, and the man 
did not resent the movement. In the evening, when he 
had arrived in Geneva, he had made an unsuccessful at- 
tempt to enter the court-house ; therefore, Gautran being 
otherwise a stranger to him, he did not recognise in the 


206 


THE WATCH ON THE HILL 


face of the man he' was now looking into, and which he 
could but dimly see ip consequence of the darkness of the 
night, the prisoner whose trial for murder had- caused so 
great an excitement. 

“If I am any judge of human nature,” he said, “ you 
are in a bad way. I can see sufficient of you to discern 
that from a social point of view you are a ruin, a very 
wreck of respectability, if your lines ever crossed in that 
direction. In which respect I, who was once a gentle- 
man, and am still, cannot deny that there is something of 
moral kinship between us. This confers distinction upon 
you — upon me, a touch of obloquy. But I am old enough 
not to be squeamish. We must take the world as we find 
it — a villainous world ! What say you ? ” 

“ A villainous world ! Go on talking.” 

Vanbrugh stood with his face towards the House of 
White Shadows, watching 'for the signal he had asked the 
Advocate to give him. Gautran, facing the man upon 
whom he had forced his company, stood, therefore, with 
his back to the villa, the lights in which he had not yet 
seen. 

“ Our condition may be borne,” continued Vanbrugh, 
“ with greater or lesser equanimity, so long as we feed the 
body — the quality of our food being really of no great 
importance, so far as the tissues are concerned ; but when 
the mind is thrown off its balance, as I see by your eyes is 
the case with you, the condition of the man becomes seri- 
ous. What is it you fear ? ” 

“ Nothing human.” 

“ Yet you are at war with society.” 

“ I was ; but I am a free man now.” 

“ You have been in peril, then — plainly speaking, a 
gaol-bird. What matters ? The world is apt to be too 
censorious ; I find no fault with you for your misfortune. 
Such things happen to the best of us. But you are free 
now, you say, and you fear nothing in human shape. 
What is it, then, you do fear ? ” 

“ Were you ever followed by a spirit? ” asked Gautran, 
in a hoarse whisper. 

“ A moment,” said Vanbrugh. “ Your question star- 
tles me. I have about me two mouthfuls of an elixir with- 


207 


THE WATCH ON THE HILL 

out which life would not be worth the living. Share and 
share alike.” 

He produced a bottle containing about a quarter of a 
pint of brandy, and saying, “ Your health, friend,” put it 
to his lips. 

Gautran watched him greedily, and, when he received 
the bottle, drained it with a gasp of savage satisfac- 
tion. 

“ That is fine, that is fine ! ” he said ; “ I wish there were 
more of it.” 

“ To echo your wish is the extent of my power in the 
direction of fulfilment. Now we can continue. Was I 
ever followed by a spirit ? Of what kind ? ” 

“ Of a woman,” replied Gautran with a shudder. 

“ Being a spirit, necessarily a dead woman ! ” 

“ Aye, a dead woman— one who was murdered.” 

A look of sudden and newly-awakened intelligence 
flashed into Vanbrugh’s face. He placed his hand again 
upon Gautran ’s shoulder. 

“ A young woman ? ” he said. 

“ Aye,” responded Gautran. 

“ Fair and beautiful? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Who met her death in the river Rhone ? 9 

“ Aye — it is known to all the world.” 

“ One who sold flowers in the streets of Geneva — whose 
name was Madeline? ” 

The utterance of the name conjured up the phantom of 
the murdered girl, and Gautran, with violent shudders, 
gazed upon the spectre. 

“ She is there — she is there ! ” he muttered, in a voice 
of agony. “ Will she never, never leave me? ” 

These words confirmed Vanbrugh’s suspicion. It was 
Gautran who stood before him. 

“ Another winning card,” he said, in a tone of triumph, 
and with a strange smile. “ The man is guilty, else why 
should he fear? Vanbrugh, a life of ease is yours once 
more. Away with these rags, this money-pinch which 
has nipped you for years. Days of pleasure, of luxury, 
are yours to enjoy. You step once more into the ranks 
of gentlemen. What would the great Advocate in yonder 


208 


THE SILENT VOICE 


study think of this chance encounter, knowing — what he 
has yet to learn — that I hold in my hands what he prizes 
most — his fame and honour ? ” 

Gautran heard the words ; he turned, and followed the 
direction of Vanbrugh’s gaze. 

“ There is but one great Advocate, the man who set me 
free. He lives yonder, then ? ” 

“ You know it, rogue,” replied Vanbrugh. “ There are 
the lights in his study window. Gautran, you and I must 
be better acquainted.” 

But he was compelled to submit to a postponement of 
his wish, for the next moment he was alone. Gautran 
had disappeared. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE SILENT VOICE 


ONE in his study the Advocate had time to review 



his position. His first feeling, when he listened 


X jL to Gautran’s confession, had been one of unutter- 
able horror, and this feeling was upon him when he 
entered the villa. 

From his outward demeanour no person could have 
guessed how terrible was his inward agitation. Self- 
repression was in him a second nature. The habit of 
concealing his thoughts had been of incalculable value in 
his profession, and had materially assisted in many of his 
great victories. 

But now he was alone, and when he had locked the 
study-door, he threw off the mask. 

He had been proud of this victory ; it was the greatest 
he had ever achieved. He knew that it would increase his 
fame, and that it was an important step in the ladder it 
had been the delight of his life to climb. Cold as he ap- 
peared, and apparently indifferent to success, his ambition 
was vast, overpowering. His one great aim had been not 
only to achieve the highest distinction while he lived, but 
to leave behind him a name which should be placed at the 
head of all his class — a clear and unsullied name which 


THE SILENT VOICE 209 

men in after times would quote as a symbol of the triumph 
of intellect. 

It was the sublimity of egoism, contemptible when allied 
with intellectual inferiority and weakness of character, but 
justifiable in his case because it was in association with a 
force of mental gifts little short of marvellous. 

In the exercise of his public duties he had been careful 
never to take a false step. Before he committed himself 
to a task he invariably made a study of its minutest detail ; 
conned it over and over, stripped it of its outward cover- 
ings, probed it to its very heart, added facets to it which 
lay not only within the region of probability, but possi- 
bility; and the result had been that his triumphs were 
spoken of with wonderment, as something almost higher 
than human, and within the capacity of no other man. 

It had sometimes occurred that the public voice was 
against a prisoner whose defence he had undertaken, but 
it was never raised against himself, and perhaps the 
sweetest reward which was ever bestowed upon him was 
when, in an unpopular cause which he had conducted to 
victory, it was afterwards proved that the man he had 
championed — whose very name was an offence — was in 
honest truth a victim instead of a wronger. It had grown 
into a fashion to say, “ He must have right on his side, or 
the Advocate would not defend him.” 

Here, then, was a triple alliance of justice, truth, and 
humanity — and he, their champion and the vindicator and 
upholder of right. In another sphere of life, and in times 
when the dragon of oppression was weighing heavily upon 
a people’s liberties, such achievements as his would have 
caused the champion to be worshipped as a saint — cer- 
tainly as a hero imbued with kingly qualities. 

No man really deserves this altitude, though it be some- 
times reached. Human nature is too imperfect, its under- 
currents are not sufficiently translucent for truth’s face to 
be reflected as in a crystal. But we judge the deed, not 
the doer, and the man is frequently crowned, the working 
of whose inner life, were it laid bare, would shock and 
disgust. 

It was when he was at the height of his fame that the 
Advocate met Adelaide. 


210 


THE SILENT VOICE 


Hitherto he had seen but little of women, or, seeing 
them, had passed them lightly by, but there comes a time 
in the lives of most men, even of the greatest, when they 
are abruptly arrested by an influence which insensibly 
masters them. 

Only once in his life had the Advocate wandered from 
the path he had formed for himself ; but it was an idle 
wandering, partly prompted by a small and unworthy de- 
sire to prove himself of two men, the superio#, and he had 
swiftly and effectually thrown the folly aside, never again 
to be indulged in or renewed. That was many years ago, 
and had been long forgotten, when Adelaide appeared to 
him, a star of loveliness, which proved, what few would 
have believed, that he had a heart. 

The new revelation was to him at first a source of infi- 
nite gladness, and he yielded to the enchantment. But 
after a time he questioned himself as to the wisdom of 
this infatuation. It was then, however, too late. The 
spell was upon him, and it did not lay in his power to re- 
move it. And when he found that this sweet pleasure did 
not — as it would have done with most men — interfere 
with his active duties, nay, that it seemed to infuse a 
keener relish into their fulfilment, he asked himself the 
question, “ Why not?” In the simple prompting of the 
question lay the answer. 

He possessed an immense power of concentration. 
With many subjects claiming close attention he could dis- 
miss them all but the one to which it was necessary he 
should devote himself, and after much self-communing he 
satisfied himself that love would be no block to ambi- 
tion. 

And indeed so it proved. Adelaide, dazzled by the at- 
tentions of a man who stood so high, accepted his worship, 
and, warned by friends not to be exigent, made no de- 
mands upon his time which interfered with his duties. 

He was a devoted but not a passionate lover. On all 
sides she was congratulated — it gratified her. By many 
she was envied — it delighted her; and she took pleasure in 
showing how easily she could lead this man, who to all 
other women was cold as ice. 

In those days it was out of her own vanity and thirst 


211 


THE SILENT VOICE 

for conquest tjiat she evolved pleasure from the associa- 
tion of her name with his. After their marriage he strove 
to interest her in the cases upon which he was engaged, 
but, discovering that her taste did not lie in that direction, 
he did not persist in his endeavour. It did not lessen his 
love for her, nor her hold upon him. She was to him on 
this night as she had ever been, a sweet, affectionate, pure 
woman, who gave him as much love and honour as a man 
so much older than herself could reasonably expect. 

Something of what has been here expressed passed 
through his mind as he reflected upon the events of the 
day. How should he deal with Gautran’s confession? 
That was the point he debated. 

When he undertook the defence he had a firm belief in 
the man’s innocence. He had drawn the picture of Gau- 
tran exactly as he had conceived it. Vile, degraded, 
brutal, without a redeeming feature — but not the mur- 
derer of Madeline the flower-girl. 

He reviewed the case again carefully, to see whether he 
could have arrived at any other conclusion. He could 
not perceive a single defect in his theory. He was justi- 
fied in his own eyes. He knew that the entire public sen- 
timent was against him, and that he had convinced men 
against their will. He knew that there was imported into 
this matter a feeling of resentment at his successful efforts 
to set Gautran free. What, then, had induced him to 
come forward voluntarily in defence of this monster? 
He asked the question of himself aloud, and he answered 
it aloud : A reverence for justice. 

He had not indulged in self-deception when he declared 
to Gautran’s judges that the leading principle of his life 
had been a desire for justice in small matters as well as 
great, for the meanest equally with the loftiest of his 
fellow-creatures. That it did not clash with his ambition 
was his good fortune. It was not tainted because of this 
human coincidence. So far, then, he was justified in his 
own estimation. 

But he must be justified also in the eyes of the world. 
And here intruded the torturing doubt whether this were 
possible. If he made it known to the world that Gautran 
was guilty, the answer would be : 


212 


THE SILENT VOICE 


“ We know it, and knew it, as we believe you yourself 
did while you were working to set him free. Why did 
you prevent justice being done upon a murderer? ” 

“ But I believed him innocent,” he would say. “ Only 
now do I know him to be guilty ! ” 

“ Upon what grounds ? ” would be asked. 

“ Upon Gautran’s own confession, given to me, alone, 
on a lonely road, within an hour after the delivery of the 
verdict.” 

He saw the incredulous looks with which this would be 
received. He put himself in the place of the public, and 
he asked : 

“ Why, at such a time, in such a spot, did Gautran con- 
fess to you ? What motive had he ? You are not a priest, 
and the high road is not a confessional.” 

He could supply to this question no answer which com- 
mon-sense would accept. 

And say that Gautran were questioned, as he would 
assuredly be. He would deny the statement point-flank. 
Liberty is sweet to all men. 

Then it would be one man’s statement against another’s ; 
he would be on an equality with Gautran, reduced to his 
level ; and in the judgment of numbers of people Gautran 
would have the advantage over him. Sides would be 
taken; he himself, in a certain sense, would be placed 
upon his trial, and public resentment, which now was 
smothered and would soon be quite hushed, would break 
out against him. 

Was he strong enough to withstand this? Could he 
arrest the furious torrent and stand unwounded on the 
shore, pure and scatheless in the eyes of men ? 

He doubted. He was too profound a student of human 
nature not to know that his fair fame would be blotted, 
and that there would be a stain upon his reputation which 
would cling to him to the last day of his life. 

Still he questioned himself. Should he dare it, and 
brave it, and bow his head? Who humbles himself lays 
himself open to the blow — and men are not merciful when 
the chance is offered to them. But he would stand clear 
in his own eyes; his conscience would approve. To none 
but himself would this be known. Inward approval 


THE SILENT VOICE 213 

would be his sole reward, his sole compensation. A hero’s 
work, however. 

For a moment or two he glowed at the contemplation. 
He soon cooled down, and with a smile, partly of self-pity, 
partly of self-contempt, proceeded to the calmer considera- 
tion of the matter. 

The meaner qualities came into play. The world did 
not know; what reason was there that it should be en- 
lightened — that he should enlighten it, to his own injury? 
The secret belonged to two men — to himself and Gautran. 
It was not likely that Gautran would blurt it out to others ; 
he valued his liberty too highly. So that it was as safe as 
though it were buried in a deep grave. As for the wrong 
done, it was a silent wrong. To ruin one’s self for a sen- 
timent would be madness ; one really suffered. 

The unfortunate girl was at rest. She was a stranger; 
no person knew her, or was interested in her except for 
her beauty; she left no family, no father, mother, or sis- 
ters, to mourn her cruel death. 

There was certainly the woman spoken of as Pauline, 
but she had disappeared, and was probably in no way re- 
lated to Madeline. What more likely than that the elder 
woman’s association with the younger arose out of a de- 
sire to trade upon the girl’s beauty, and appropriate the 
profits to her own use? A base view of the matter, but 
natural, human. And having reaped a certain profit out 
of their trade in flowers, larger than was suspected, the 
crafty woman of the world had deliberately deserted 
Madeline and left her to her fate. 

Why, then, should he step forward as her avenger, to 
the destruction of the great name he had spent the best 
fruits of his mind and the best years of his life to build 
up ? To think of such a thing was Quixotism run mad. 

One of the threads of these reflections — that which 
forced itself upon him as the toughest and the most promi- 
nent — W as contempt of himself for permitting his thoughts 
to wander into currents so base. But that was his con- 
cern ; it affected no other person, so long as he chose to 
hold his own counsel. The difficulty into which he. was 
plunged was not of his seeking. Fate had dealt him a 
hard stroke ; he received it on his shield instead of on his 


214 


THE SILENT VOICE 


body. Who would say that that was not wise? What 
other man, having the option, would not have done as he 
was about to do? 

“ Canning sophist, cunning sophist!” his conscience 
whispered to him ; “ think not that, wandering in these 
crooked paths of reasoning, you can find the talisman 
which will transfonn wrong into right, or remove the 
stain which will rest upon your soul.” 

He answered his conscience : “ To none but myself is 
my soul visible. Who, then, can see the stain ? ” 

His conscience replied : “ God ! ” 

“ I will confess to Him,” he said, “ but not to man.” 

“ There is but one right course,” his conscience said ; 
“ juggle as you may, you know that there is but one right 
course.” 

“ I know it,” he said boldly, “ but I am cast in human 
mould, and am not heroic enough for the sacrifice you 
would impose upon me.” 

“ Listen,” said his conscience, “ a voice from the grave 
is calling to you.” 

He heard the voice : “ Blood for Blood.” 

He stood transfixed. The images raised by that silent 
voice were appalling. They culminated in the impalpable 
shape of a girl, with pallid face, gazing sadly at him, ovtr 
whose form seemed to be traced in the air the lurid words, 
“ Blood for Blood ! ” 

Heaven’s decree. 

The vision lasted but for a brief space. In the light of 
his strong will such airy terrors could not long exist. 

Blood for blood ! It once held undisputed sway, but 
there are great and good men who look upon the fulfil- 
ment of the stern decree as a crime. Mercy, humanity, 
and all the higher laws of civilisation were on their side. 
But he could not quite stifle the voice. 

He took another view. Say that he yielded to the whis- 
perings of his conscience — say that, braving all the con- 
sequences of his action, he denounced Gautran. The man 
had already been tried for murder, and could not be tried 
again. Set this aside. Say that a way was discovered to 
bring Gautran again to the bar of earthly justice, of what 
value was the new evidence that could be brought against 


215 


THE SILENT VOICE 

him ? His own bare word — lais recital of an interview of 
which he held no proof, and which Gautran’s simple denial 
would be sufficient to destroy. Place this new evidence 
against the evidence he himself had established in proof 
of Gautran’s innocence, and it became a feather-weight. 
A lawyer of mediocre attainments would blow away such 
evidence with a breath. It would injure only him who 
brought it forward. 

He decided. The matter must rest where it was. In 
silence lay safety. 

There was still another argument in favour of this con- 
clusion. The time for making public the horrible knowl- 
edge of which he had become possessed was passed. 
After he had received Gautran’s confession he should not 
have lost a moment in communicating with the authorities. 
Not only had he allowed the hours to slip by without tak- 
ing action, but in the conversation initiated that evening 
by Pierre Lamont, in which he had joined, he had tacitly 
committed himself to the continuance of a belief in Gau- 
tran’s innocence. He saw no way out of the fatal con- 
struction which all who knew him, as well as all who knew 
him not, would place upon this line of conduct. He had 
been caught in a trap of his own setting, but he could 
hide his wounds. Yes; the question was answered. He 
must preserve silence. 

This long self-communing had exhausted him. He 
could not sleep ; he could neither read nor study. His 
mind required relief and solace in companionship. His 
wife was doubtless asleep ; he would not disturb her. He 
would go to his friend’s chamber ; Christian Aimer would 
be awake, and they would pass an hour in sympathising 
converse. Aimer had asked him, when they bade each 
other gopd-night, whether he intended immediately to re- 
tire to rest, and he had answered that he had much to do 
in his study, and should probably be up till late in the 
night. 

“ I will not disturb you,” Aimer had said, “ but I, too, 
am in no mood for sleep. I have letters to write, and if 
you happen to need society, come to my room, and we will 
have one of our old chats.” 

As he quitted the study to seek his friend the soft sil- 


216 


GAUTRAN FINDS A REFUGE 


very chimes of a clock on the mantel proclaimed the hour. 
He counted the strokes. It was midnight. 


CHAPTER V 


GAUTRAN FINDS A REFUGE 


W HEN John Vanbrugh found himself alone he 
cried: 

“What! Tired of my company already? 
That is a fine compliment to pay to a gentleman of my 
breeding. Gautran ! Gautran ! ” 

He listened ; no answer came. 

“ A capital disappearance,” he continued ; “ in its way 
dramatic. The scene, the time, all agreeing. It does not 
please me. Do you hear me, Gautran,” he shouted. “ It 
does not please me. If I were not tied to this spot in the 
execution of a most important mission, I would after you, 
my friend, and teach you better manners. He drank my 
brandy, too, the ungrateful rogue. A waste of good 
liquor — a sheer waste ! He gets no more without paying 
its equivalent.” ** 

Vanbrugh indulged in this soliloquy without allowing 
his wrath to interfere with his watch ; not for a single mo- 
ment did he shift his gaze from the windows of the Ad- 
vocate’s study. 

“ Now what induced him,” he said after a pause, “ to 
spirit himself away so mysteriously? From the violent 
fancy he expressed for my company I regarded him as a 
fixture; one would have supposed he intended to stick to 
me like a limpet to a rock. Suddenly, without rhyme or 
reason, and just as the conversation was getting interest- 
ing, he takes French leave, and makes himself scarce. 

“ I hope he has not left his ghost behind him — the 
ghost of pretty Madeline. Not likely, though. When a 
partnership such as that is entered into — uncommonly 
unpleasant and inconvenient it must be — it is not dissolved 
so easily. 

“ Perhaps he was spirited away — wanted, after the 
fashion of our dear Lothario, Don Giovanni. There was 


GAUTRAN FINDS A REFUGE 217 

no blue fire about, however, and I smell no brimstone. 
No — he disappeared of his own prompting; it will repay 
thinking over. He saw his phantom — even my presence 
could not keep her from him. He murdered her — not a 
doubt of it — and the Advocate has proved his innocence. 

“ Were it not a double tragedy I should feel disposed to 
laugh. 

“We were speaking of the Advocate when he darted 
off. But you cannot escape me, Gautran ; we shall meet 
again. An acquaintanceship so happily commenced must 
not be allowed to drop — nor shall it, while it suits my 
purpose. 

“ At length, John Vanbrugh, you are learning to be 
wise. You allowed yourself to be fleeced, sucked dry, and 
being thrown upon the rocks, stripped of fortune and the 
means to woo it, you strove to live as knaves live, upon 
the folly of others like yourself. But you were a poor 
hand at the trade; you were never cut out for a knave, 
and you passed through a succession of reverses so hard 
as almost to break an honest Qian’s heart. It is all over 
now. I see the sun ; bright days are before you, John, the 
old days over again ; but you will spend your money more 
prudently, my lad; no squandering; exact its value; be 
wise, bold, determined, and you shall not go down With 
sorrow to the grave. Edward, my friend, if I had the 
liquor I would drink to you. As it is ” 

As it was, he wafted a mocking kiss towards the House 
of White Shadows, and patiently continued his watch. 

Meanwhile Gautran had not been idle. 

Upon quitting Vanbrugh, the direction he took was 
from the House of White Shadows, but when he was at a 
safe distance from Vanbrugh, out of sight and hearing, 
he paused, and deliberately set his face towards the villa. 

He skirted the hill at its base, and walking with great 
caution, pausing frequently to assure himself that he was 
alone and was not being followed, arrived at the gates of 
the villa. He tried the gates — they were locked. Could 
he climb over them? He would have risked the danger 
— they were set with sharp spikes — had he not known that 
it would take some time, and feared that some person pass- 
ing along the high road might detect him. 


218 GAUTRAN FINDS A REFUGE 

He made his way to the back of the villa, and care- 
fully examined the walls. His eyes were accustomed to 
darkness, and he could see pretty clearly; it was a long 
time before he discovered a means of ingress, afforded by 
an old elm which grew within a few yards of the wall, 
and the far-spreading branches of which stretched over 
the grounds. 

He climbed the tree, and crept like a cat along the 
stoutest branch he could find. It bent beneath his weight 
as he hung suspended from it. It was a fall of twenty 
feet, but he risked it. He unloosed his hands, and dropped 
to the earth. He was shaken, but not bruised. His pur- 
pose, thus far, was accomplished. He was within the 
grounds of the villa. 

All was quiet. When he had recovered from the shock 
of the fall, he stepped warily towards the house. Now 
and then he was startled and alarmed at the shadows of 
the trees which moved athwart his path, but he mastered 
these terrors, and crept on and on till he heard the soft 
sound of a clock striking the hour. 

.He paused, as the Advocate had done, and counted the 
strokes. Midnight. When the sound had quite died 
away, he stepped forward, and saw the lights in the study 
windows. 

Was anybody there ? He guessed shrewdly enough that 
if the room was occupied it would be by no other person 
than the Advocate. Well, it was the Advocate he came 
to see ; he had no design of robbery in his mind. 

He stealthily approached a window, and blessed his good 
fortune to find that it was partly open. He peered into 
the study ; it was empty. He climbed the sill, and 
dropped safely into the room. 

What a grand apartment! What costly pictures and 
vases, what an array of books and papers ! Beautiful 
objects met his eyes whichever way he turned. There 
was the Advocate’s chair, there the table at which he 
wrote. The Advocate had left the room for a while — 
this was Gautran’s correct surmise — and intended to re- 
turn. The lamps fully turned up were proof of this. He 
looked at the papers on the table. Could he have read, 
he would have seen that many of them bore his own 


PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 219 

name. On a massive sideboard there were bottles filled 
with liquor, and glasses. He drank three or four glasses 
rapidly, and then, coiling himself up in a corner of the 
room, in a few moments was fast asleep. 


CHAPTER VI 

PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES TO FRITZ 
THE FOOL 

T HE bedroom allotted to Pierre Lamont by Mother 
Denise was situated on the first floor, and ad- 
joined the apartments prepared for Christian 
Aimer. As he was unable to walk a step it was necessary 
that the old lawyer should be carried upstairs. His body- 
servant, expressly engaged to wheel him about and at- 
tend to his wants, was ready to perform his duties, but 
into Pierre Lamont’s head had entered the whim that he 
would be assisted to his room by no person but Fritz the 
Fool. The servant was sent in search of Fritz, who 
could not easily be found. It was quite half an hour be- 
fore the fool made his appearance, and by that time all 
the guests, with the exception of Pierre Lamont, had left 
the House of White Shadows. 

Out of sympathy with Pierre Lamont’s sufferings 
Father Capel had remained to chat with him until Fritz 
arrived. But the priest was suddenly called away. 
Mother Denise, entering the room, informed him that a 
peasant who lived ten miles from the House of White 
Shadows urgently desired to see him. Father Capel was 
about to go out to the man, when Adelaide suggested that 
he should be brought in, and the peasant accordingly dis- 
closed his errand in the presence of the Advocate and his 
wife, Pierre Lamont, and Christian Aimer. 

“ I have been to your house,” said the peasant, stand- 
ing, cap in hand, in humble admiration of the grandeur by 
which he was surrounded, “ and was directed here. 
There is a woman dying in my hut.” 

“ What is her name, and where does she come 
from?” 


220 PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 


“ I know not. She has been with us for over three 
weeks, and it is a sore burden upon us. It happened in 
this way, reverend father. My hut, you know, is in the 
cleft of a rock, at the foot of the Burger Pass, a danger- 
ous spot for those who are not familiar with the track. 
Some twenty-four days ago it was that my wife in the 
night roused me with the tale of a frightful scream, which, 
proceeding from one in agony near my hut, pierced her 
very marrow, and woke her from sleep. I sprang from 
my bed, and went into the open, and a few yards down I 
found a woman who had fallen from a height, and was 
lying in delirious pain upon the sharp stones. I raised 
her in my arms; she was bleeding terribly, and I feared 
she was hurt to death. I did the best I could, and carried 
her into my hut, where my wife nursed and tended her. 
But from that night to this we have been unable to get 
one sensible word from her, and she is now at death’s 
door. She needs your priestly offices, reverend father, 
and therefore I have come for you.” 

“ How interesting ! ” exclaimed Adelaide. “ Who will 
pay you for your goodness to this poor creature ? ” 

“ God,” said Father Capel, replying for the peasant. 
“ It is the poor who help the poor, and in the Kingdom of 
Heaven our Gracious Lord rewards them.” 

“ I am content,” said the peasant. 

“ But in the contemplation of the Hereafter,” said 
Pierre Lamont, “ let us not forget the present. There 
are many whose loads are too heavy — for instance, asses. 
There are a few whose loads are too light — scoffers, like 
myself. You have had occasion to rebuke me, this night, 
Father Capel, and were I not a hardened sinner I should 
be groaning in tribulation. That to the last hour of my 
life I shall deserve your rebukes, proves me, I fear, be- 
yond hope of redemption. Still I bear in mind the asses’ 
burden. You have used my purse once, in penance; use 
it again, and pay this man for the loss inflicted upon him 
by his endeavours to earn the great spiritual reward — 
which, in all humility I say it, does not put bread into 
human stomachs.” 

Father Capel accepted Pierre Lamont’s purse, and said : 
“ I judge not by words, but by works; your offering shall 


PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 221 

be justly administered. Come, let us hasten to this un- 
fortunate woman.” 

When he and the peasant had departed, Pierre Lamont 
said, with mock enthusiasm: 

“ A good man ! a good man ! Virtue such as his is a 
severe burden, but I doubt not he enjoys it. I prefer to 
earn my seat in heaven vicariously, to which end my gold 
will materially assist. It is as though paradise can be 
bought by weight or measure; the longer the purse the 
greater the chance of salvation. Ah, here is Fritz. Good- 
night, good-night. Bright dreams to all. Gently, Fritz, 
gently,” continued the old lawyer, as he was being carried 
up the stairs, “ my bones are brittle.” 

“ Brittle enough I should say,” rejoined Fritz ; “ chicken 
bones they might be from the weight of you.” 

“ Are diamonds heavy, fool ? ” 

“ Ha, ha! ” laughed Fritz, “ if I had the selling of you, 
Master Lamont, I should like to make you the valuer. I 
should get a rare good price for you at that rate.” 

In the bedroom Pierre Lamont retained Fritz to prepare 
him for bed. The old lawyer, undressed, was a veritable 
skeleton ; there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on 
his shrivelled bones. 

“What would you have done in the age of giants ? ” 
asked Fritz, making merry over Pierre Lamont’ s attenu- 
ated form. 

“ This would have served,” replied Pierre Lamont, tap- 
ping his forehead with his forefinger. “ I should have 
contrived so as to be a match for them. Bring that small 
table close to the bedside. Now place the lamp on it. Put 
your hand into the tail-pocket of my coat ; you will find a 
silk handkerchief there.” 

Pie tied the handkerchief — the colour of which was yel- 
low — about his head ; and as the small, thin face peeped 
out of it, brown-skinned and hairless, it looked like the 
face of a mummy. 

Fritz gazed at him, and laughed immoderately, and 
Pierre Lamont nodded and nodded at the fool, with a 
smile of much humour on his lips. 

“ Enjoy yourself, fool, enjoy yourself,” he said kindly ; 
“but don’t pass your life in laughter; it is destructive of 


222 PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 

brain power. What do you think of the spirit, Fritz, the 
appearance of which so alarmed one of the young ladies in 
our merry party to-night ? ” 

“ What do you think of it? ” asked Fritz in return, with 
a quivering of his right eyelid, which suspiciously resem- 
bled a wink. 

“ Ah, ah, knave ! ” cried Pierre Lamont, chuckling. “ 1 
half suspected you.” 

“ You will not tell on me, Master Lamont? ” 

“Not I, fool. How did you contrive it? ” 

“ With a white sheet and a lantern. I thought it a pity 
that my lady should be disappointed. Should she leave the 
place without some warranty that spirits are here, the 
house would lose its character. Then there is the young 
master, your Christian Aimer. He spoke to me very much 
as if I were a beast of the field instead of a — fool. So I 
thought I would give him food for thought.” 

“A dangerous trick, Fritz. Your secret is safe with me, 
but I would not try it too often. Are there any books in 
the room? Look about, Fritz, look about.” 

“ For books! ” exclaimed Fritz. “ People go to bed to 
sleep.” 

“ I go to bed to think,” retorted Pierre Lamont, “ and 
read. People are idiots — they don’t know how to use the 
nights.” 

“ Men are not owls,” said Fritz. “ There are no books 
in the room.” 

“ How shall I pass the night ? ” grumbled Pierre La- 
mont. “ Open that drawer ; there may be something to 
read in it.” 

Fritz opened the drawer; it was filled with books. 
Pierre Lamont uttered a cry of delight. 

“ Bring half-a-dozen of them — quick. Now I am 

happy.” 

He opened the books which Fritz handed to him, and 
placed them by his side on the bed. They were in various 
languages. Lavater, Zimmermann, a Latin book on De- 
monology, poems of Lope da Vega, Klingemann’s trage- 
dies, Italian poems by Zappi, Filicaja, Cassiani, and others. 

“ You understand all these books, Master Lamont? ” 

“ Of course, fool.” 


PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 223 

“ What language is this ? ” 

“ Latin.” 

“And this?” 

“ Spanish.” 

“ And this?” 

“ Italian. No common mind collected these books, 
Fritz.” 

“ The master that’s dead — father of him who sleeps in 
the next room.” 

“Ha, ha ! ” interposed Pierre Lamont, turning over the 
pages as he spoke. “ He sleeps there, does he ? ” 

“ Yes. His father was a great scholar, I’ve heard.” 

“A various scholar, Fritz, if these books are an epitome 
of his mind. Love, philosophy, gloomy wanderings in 
dark paths — here we have them all. The lights and 
shadows of life. Which way runs your taste, fool ? ” 

“ I love the light, of course. What use in being a fool 
if you don’t know how to take advantage of your opportu- 
nities ? ” 

“Well said. Let us indulge a little. These poets are sly 
rascals. They take unconscionable liberties, and play with 
women’s beauty as other men dare not do.” 

Fritz’s eyes twinkled. 

“ It does not escape even you, Master Lamont.” 

“ What does not escape me, fool ? ” 

“ Woman’s beauty, Master Lamont.” 

“ Have 1 not eyes in my head and blood in my veins ? ” 
asked Pierre Lamont. “ It warms me like wine to know 
that I and the loveliest woman for a hundred miles round 
are caged within the same roof.” 

Fritz indulged in another fit of laughter, and then ex- 
claimed : 

“ She has caught you too, eh? Now, who would have 
thought it? Two of the cleverest lawyers in the world 
fixed with one arrow! Beauty is a divine gift, Master 
Lamont. To possess it is almost as good as being born a 
fool.” 

“ I shall lie awake and read love-verses. Listen to 
Zappi, fool.” 

And in a voice really tender, Pierre Lamont read from 
the book : 


224 PIERRE LAMONT READS LOVE-VERSES 

“ A hundred pretty little loves, in fun, 

Were romping; laughing, rioting one day.” 

“A hundred!” cried Fritz, chuckling and rubbing his 
hands. “A hundred — pretty — little loves ! If Father 
Capel were to hear you, his face would grow as long as my 
arm.” 

“ Wrong, Fritz, wrong. His face would beam, and he 
would listen for the continuation of the poem.” 

And Pierre Lamont resumed : 

“ ‘ Let’s fly a little now,’ said one, r I pray.’ 

‘ Whither? ’ ' To beauty’s face.’ ‘ Agreed — ’tis done.’ 

“ Faster than bees to flowers they wing their way 
To lovely maids — to mine, the sweetest one ; 

And to her hair and panting lips they run — 

Now here, now there, now everywhere they stray. 

*' My love so full of loves — delightful sight ! 

Two with their torches in her eyes, and two 
Upon her eyelids with their bows alight.” 

“ You read rarely, Master Lamont,” said Fritz. “ It is 
true, is it not, that, when you were in practice, you were 
called the lawyer with the silver tongue ? ” 

“ It has been said of me, Fritz.” 

The picture of this withered, dried-up old lawyer, sit- 
ting up in bed, with a yellow handkerchief for a night-cap 
tied round his head, reading languishing verses in a tender 
voice, and striving to bring into his weazened features an 
expression in harmony with them, was truly a comical one. 

“ Why, Master Lamont,” said Fritz in admiration, “you 
were cut out for a gallant. Had you recited those lines in 
the drawing-room, you would have had all the ladies at 
your feet — supposing,” he added, with a broad grin, “they 
had all been blind.” 

“Ah me ! ” said Pierre Lamont, throwing aside the 
book with a mocking sigh. “Too old — too old ! ” 

“And shrunken,” said Fritz. 

“ It is not to be denied, Fritz. And shrunken.” 

“ And ugly.” 

“You stick daggers into me. Yes — and ugly. Ah!” 
and with simulated wrath he shook his fisFin the air, “if I 


MISTRESS AND MAID 225 

were but like my brother the Advocate! Eh, Fritz — 
eh ? ” . 

Fritz shook his head slowly. 

“ If I were not a fool, I should say I would much rather 
be as you are, old, and withered, and ugly, and a cripple, 
than be standing in the place of your brother the Advocate. 
And so would you, Master Lamont, for all your love- 
songs.” 

“ I can teach you nothing, fool. Push the lamp a little 
nearer to me. Give me my waistcoat. Here is a gold piece 
for you. I owe you as much, I think. We will keep our 
own counsel, Fritz. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Master Lamont. I am sorry that trial is 
over. It was rare fun ! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


D 


MISTRESS AND MAID 

IONETTA? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

The maid and her mistress were in Adelaide’s 
dressing-room, and Dionetta was brushing her lady’s hair, 
which hung down in rich, heavy waves. 

She smiled at herself in the glass before which she was 
sitting, and her mood became more joyous as she noted the 
whiteness of her teeth and the beautiful expression of her 
mouth when she smiled. There was an irresistible fasci- 
nation in her smile ; it flashed into all her features, like a 
laughing sunrise. 

She was never tired of admiring her beauty ; it was to 
her a most precious possession of which nothing but time 
could rob her. “ To-day is mine,” she frequently said to 
herself, and she wished with all her heart that there were 
no to-morrow. 

Yes, to-day was hers, and she was beautiful, and, gazing 
at the reflection of her fair self, she thought that she did 
not look more than eighteen. 

“ Do you think I do, child ? ” she asked of Dionetta. 

“ Think you do what, my lady ? ” inquired Diorjetta. 


226 


MISTRESS AND MAID 


Adelaide laughed, a musical, child-like laugh which any 
man, hearing, would have judged to be an expression of 
pure innocent delight. She derived pleasure even from 
this pleasant sound. 

“ I was thinking to myself, and I believed I was speak- 
ing aloud. Do you think I look twenty-five ? ” 

“ No, ineed, my lady, not by many years. You look 
younger than I do.” 

“And you are not eighteen, Dionetta.” 

“ Not yet, my lady.” 

Adelaide’s eyes sparkled. It was indeed true that she 
looked younger than her maid, who was in herself a beauty 
and young-looking. 

“ Dionetta,” she said, presently, after a pause, “ I have 
had a curious dream.” 

“ I saw you close your eyes for a moment, my lady.” 

“ I dreamt I was the most beautiful woman in all this 
wide world.” 

“ You are, my lady.” 

The words were uttered in perfect honesty and sim- 
plicity. Her mistress was truly the most beautiful woman 
she had ever seen. 

“ Nonsense, child, nonsense — there are others as fair, 
although I should not fear to stand beside them. It was 
only a dream, and this but the commencement of it. I was 
the most beautiful woman in the world. I had the hand- 
somest features, the loveliest figure, and a shape that 
sculptors would have called perfection. I had the most 
exquisite dresses that ever were worn, and everything in 
that way a woman’s heart could desire.” 

“A happy dream, my lady ! ” 

“ Wait. I had a palace to live in, in a land where it was 
summer the whole year through. Such gardens, Dionetta, 
and such flowers as one only sees in dreams. I had rings 
enough to cover my fingers a dozen times over ; diamonds 
in profusion for my hair, and neck, and arms, — trunks full 
of them, and of old lace, and of the most wonderful jewels 
the mind can conceive. Would you believe it, child, in 
spite of all this, I was the most miserable woman in the 
universe ? ” 

“ It is hard to believe, my lady.” 


MISTRESS AND MAID 227 

“ Not when I tell you the reason. Dionetta, I was abso- 
lutely alone. There was not a single person near me, old 
or young — not one to look at me, to envy me, to admire 
me, to love me. What was the use of beauty, diamonds, 
flowers, dresses? The brightest eyes, the loveliest com- 
plexion, the whitest skin — all were thrown away. It would 
have been just as well if I had been dressed in rags, and 
were old and wrinkled as Pierre Lamont. Now, what I 
learn from my dream is this — that beauty is not worth hav- 
ing unless it is admired and loved, and unless other people 
can see it as well as yourself.’ , 

“ Everybody sees that you are beautiful, my lady ; it is 
spoken of everywhere.” 

“ Is it, Dionetta, really, now, is it ? ” 

“ Yes, my lady. And you are admired and loved.” 

“ I think I am, child ; I know I am. So that my dream 
goes for nothing. A foolish fancy, was it not, Dionetta ? — 
but women are never satisfied. I should never be tired — 
never, never, of hearing the man I love say, ‘ I love you, I 
love you! You are the most beautiful, the dearest, the 
sweetest ! ’ ” 

She leant forward and looked closely at herself in the 
glass, and then sank back in her chair and smiled, and half- 
closed her eyes. 

“ Dionetta,” she said presently, “ what makes you so 
pale? ” 

“ It is the Shadow, my lady, that was seen to-night,” 
replied Dionetta in a whisper ; “ I cannot get it out of my 
mind.” 

“ But you did not see it ? ” 

“ No, my lady ; but it was there.” 

“ You believe in ghosts? ” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ You would not have the courage to go where one was 
to be seen ? ” 

“ Not for all the gold in the world, my lady.” 

“ But the other servants are more courageous ? ” 

“ They may be, but they would not dare to go ; they said 
so to-night, all of them.” 

“ They have been speaking of it, then ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; of scarcely anything else. Grandmother said 


228 


MISTRESS AND MAID 


to-night that if you had not come to the villa, the belief in 
the shadows would have died away altogether.” 

“ That is too ridiculous,” interrupted Adelaide. “ What 
can I have to do with them ? ” 

“If you had not come,” said Dionetta, “ grandmother 
said our young master would not be here. It is because he 
is in the house, sleeping here for the first night for so 
many, many years, that the spirit of his mother appeared 
to him.” 

“ But your grandmother has told me she did not believe 
in the shadows.” 

“ My lady, I think she is changing her opinion — else she 
would never have said what she did. It is long since I have 
seen her so disturbed.” 

Adelaide rose from her chair, the fairest picture of 
womanhood eyes ever gazed upon. A picture an artist 
would have contemplated with delight. She stood still for 
a few moments, her hand resting on her writing-desk. 

“ Your grandmother does not like me, Dionetta.” 

“ She has not said so, my lady,” said Dionetta after an 
awkward pause. 

“ Not directly, child,” said Adelaide, “ and I have no 
reason to complain of want of respect in her. But one 
always knows whether one is really liked or not.” 

“ She is growing old,” murmured Dionetta apologetic- 
ally, “ and has seen very little of ladies.” 

“ Neither have you, child. Yet you do not dislike me.” 

“ My lady, if I dare to say it, I love you.” 

“ There is no daring in it, child. I love to be loved — 
and I would sooner be loved by the young than the old. 
Come here, pretty one. Your ears are like little pink 
shells, and deserve something better than those common 
rings in them. Put these in their place.” 

She took from a jewel-case a pair of earrings, turquoise 
and small diamonds, and with her own hands made the 
exchange. 

“ Oh, my lady,” sighed Dionetta with a rose-light ir. 
her face. “ They are too grand for me ! What shall I 
say when people see them ? ” 

The girl’s heart was beating quick with ecstasy. She 
looked at herself in the glass, and uttered a cry of joy. 


MISTRESS AND MAID 229 

“ Say that I gave them to you because I love you. I 
never had a maid who pleased me half as much. Does 
this prove it?” and she put her lips to Dionetta’s face. 
The girl’s eyes filled with tears, and she kissed Adelaide’s 
hand in a passion of gratitude. 

“ I love you, Dionetta, because you love me, and be- 
cause I can trust you.” 

“ You can, my lady. I will serve you with all my heart 
and soul. But I have done nothing for you that any other 
girl could not have done.” 

“ Would you like to do something for me that I would 
trust no other to do? ” 

“ Yes, my lady,” eagerly answered Dionetta. “ I should 
be proud.” 

“ And you will tell no one ? ’ 

“ Not a soul, my lady, if you command me.” 

“ I do command you. It is easy to do — merely to de- 
liver a note, and to say : ‘ This is from my mistress.’ ” 

“ Oh, my lady, that is no task at all. It is so simple.” 

“ Simple as it is, I do not wish even your grandmother 
to hear of it.” 

“ She shall not — nor any person. I swear it.” 

In the extravagance of her gratitude and joy, she kissed 
a little cross that hung from her neck. 

“ You have made me your friend for life,” said Ade- 
laide, “ the best friend you ever had, or ever will have.” 

She sat down to her desk, and on a sheet of note-paper 
wrote these words : 

“ Dear Christan : 

“ I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with 
no horrid people around us. Let me see you for one 
minute only. 

“ Adelaide.” 

Placing the sheet of note-paper in an envelope, she gave 
it to Dionetta, saying: 

“ Take this to Mr. Aimer’s room, and give it to him. It 
is nothing of any importance, but he will be pleased to 
receive it.” 

Dionetta, marvelling why her lady should place any 


230 IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 

value upon so slight a service, went upstairs with the note, 
and returned with the information that Christian Aimer 
was not in his room. 

“ But his door is open, my lady/’ she said, “ and the 
lamps are burning.” 

“ Go then, again,” said Adelaide, “ and place the note 
• on his desk. There is no harm, child ; he cannot see you, 
as he is not there, and if he were, he would not be angry.” 

Dionetta obeyed without fear, and when she told her 
mistress that the note was placed where Christian Aimer 
was sure to see it, Adelaide kissed her again, and wished 
her “ Good-night.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 



PON no person had the supposed appearance of a 


phantom in the grounds of the House of White 


Shadows produced so profound an impression as 
upon Christian Aimer. This was but natural. Even 
supposing him not to have been a man of susceptibility, 
the young lady’s terror, as she gazed at the shadow, could 
not have failed to make an impression upon him. 

It was the first night of his return, after an absence of 
many years, to the house in which he had been born and 
had passed his unhappy childhood’s life : and the origin of 
the belief in these white shadows which were said to 
haunt his estate was so closely woven into his personal 
history as almost to form a part of himself. He had never 
submitted his mind to a rigid test of belief or disbelief in 
these signs ; one of the principal aims of his life had been, 
not only to avoid the villa, but to shut out all thought of 
the tragic events which had led to the death of his parents. 

He loved them both with an equal love. When he 
thought of his mother he saw a woman patient in suffer- 
ing, of a temper exquisitely sweet, whose every word and 
act towards her child was fraught with tenderness. 
When he thought of his father he saw a man high- 
principled and just, inflexible in matters of right and con- 


IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 231 

science, patient also in suffering, and bearing in silence, 
as his mother did, a grief which had poisoned his life and 
hers. 

Neither of his parents had ever spoken a word against 
the other; the mystery which kept this tender, loving 
woman, and this just, high-principled man, apart, was 
never disclosed to their child. On this subject they en- 
trenched themselves behind a barrier of silence which the 
child’s love and winning ways could not penetrate. Only 
when his mother’s eyes were closed and her lips sealed by 
death was he privileged to witness how deeply his father 
had loved her. 

Much of what had been disclosed to the Advocate’s 
wife by Mother Denise was absolutely unknown to him. 
Doubtless he could have learned every particular of the 
circumstances which had led to the separation of his 
parents, had his wish lain in that direction ; but a delicate 
instinct whispered to him not to lift the veil, and he would 
permit no person to approach the subject in his presence. 

The bright appearance of his sitting-room cheered him 
when he entered it, after bidding the Advocate good-night. 
But this pleasurable sense was not unalloyed. His heart 
and his conscience were disturbed, and as he took up a 
handful of roses which had been thrown loose into a bowl 
and inhaled their fragrance, a guilty thrill shot through 
his veins. 

With the roses in his hand he stood before the picture 
of Adelaide, which she had hung above his desk. How 
bright and beautiful was the face, how lovely the smile 
with which she greeted him ! It was almost as if she were 
speaking to him, telling him that she loved him, and ask- 
ing him to assure her once more that her love was re- 
turned. 

For a moment the fancy came upon him that Adelaide 
and he were like two stars wandering through a dark and 
dangerous path, and that before them lay death, and worse 
than death — dishonour and irretrievable ruin; and that 
she, the brighter star, holding him tightly by the hand, 
was whispering : 

“ I will guide you safely ; only love me ! ” 

There was one means of escape — death ! A coward’s 


232 IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 

refuge, which might not even afford him a release from 
dishonour, for Adelaide in her despair might let their 
secret escape her. 

Why, then, should he torture himself unnecessarily? It 
was not in his power to avert the inevitable. He had not 
deliberately chosen his course. Fate had driven him into 
it. Was it not best, after all, to do as he had said to the 
Advocate that night, to submit without a struggle ? Men 
were not masters, but slaves. 

When the image of the Advocate, of his friend, pre- 
sented itself to him, he thrust it sadly from him. But it 
came again and again, like the ghost of Banquo; con- 
science refused to be tricked. 

Crumbling the roses in his hand, and strewing the floor 
with the leaves, he turned, and saw, gazing wistfully at 
him, the eyes of his mother. 

The artist who had painted her picture had not chosen 
to depict her in her most joyous mood. In his heart also, 
as she sat before him, love’s fever was burning, and he 
knew, while his brush was fixing her beauty on the canvas, 
that his love was returned, though treachery had parted 
them. He had striven, not unsuccessfully, to portray in 
her features the expression of one who loved and to whom 
love was denied. The look in her eyes was wistful rather 
than hopeless, and conveyed, to those who knew her his- 
tory, the idea of one who hoped to find in another world 
the happiness she had lost in this. 

Sad and tender reminiscences of the years he had lived 
with his mother in these very rooms stole into Christian 
Aimer’s mind, and he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon 
the question, “ Why had she been unhappy ? ” She was 
young, beautiful, amiable, rich ; her husband was a man 
honoured and esteemed, with a character above reproach. 
What secret would be revealed if the heart of this mystery 
vyere laid bare to his sight? If it were in his power to 
ascertain the truth, might not the revelation cause him 
additional sorrow? Better, then, to let the matter rest. 
No good purpose could be served by raking up the ashes 
of a melancholy past. His parents were dead 

And here occurred a sudden revulsion. His mother 
was dead — and, but a few short minutes since, her spirit 


IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 233 

was supposed to have appeared in the grounds of the villa. 
Almost upon the thought, he hurriedly left the room, and 
made his way into the gardens. 

“ My neighbour, and master of this house,” said Pierre 
Lamont, who was lying wide awake in the adjoining 
room, “ does not seem inclined to rest. Something dis- 
turbs him.” 

Pierre Lamont was alone; Fritz the Fool had left him 
for the night, and the old lawyer, himself in no mood for 
sleep, was reading and listening to the movements around 
him. There was little to hear, only an occasional muffled 
sound which the listener interpreted as best he could ; but 
Christian Aimer, when he left his room, had to pass Pierre 
Lamont’s door in his progress to the grounds, and it was 
the clearer sound of his footsteps which led Pierre Lamont 
to his correct conclusion. 

“ He is going out of the house,” continued Pierre La- 
mont. “ For what? To look for his mother’s ghost, per- 
haps. Fool Fritz, in raising this particular ghost, did not 
foresee what it might lead to. Ghosts ! And fools still 
live who believe in them ! Wett, well, but for the world’s 
delusions there would be little work for busy minds to ac- 
complish. As a fantastic piece of imagery I might con- 
jure up an army of men sweeping the world with brooms 
made of brains — of knavery, folly, trickery, and delusion. 
What is that? A footstep! Human? No. Too light 
for any but the feet of a cat ! ” 

But here Pierre Lamont was at fault. It was Dionetta 
who passed his door in the passage, conveying to Chris- 
tian Aimer’s room the note written by the Advocate’s wife. 
Before the arrival of her new mistress, Dionetta had 
always worn thick boots, and the sound of her footstep 
was plain to hear ; but Adelaide’s nerves could not endure 
the creaking and clattering, and she had supplied her maid 
with shoes. Besides, Dionetta had naturally a light step. 

Christian Aimer met with nothing in the grounds to 
disturb him. No airy shadow appeared to warn him of 
the danger which threatened him. Were it possible for 
the spirits of the dead to make themselves seen and heard. 


234 IN THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD 

assuredly the spirit of his mother would have appeared 
and implored him to fly from the house without delay. 
Happy for him would it have been were he one of the 
credulous fools Pierre Lamont held in despisal — happy 
for him could he have formed, out of the shadows which 
moved around him, a spirit in which he would have be- 
lieved, and could he have heard, in the sighing of the 
breeze, a voice which would have impressed him with a 
true sense of the peril in which he stood. 

But he heard and saw nothing for which he could not 
naturally account, and within a few minutes of midnight 
he re-entered his room. 

“ My neighbour has returned,” said Pierre Lamont, 
“ after his nocturnal ramble in search of the spirit of his 
dead mother. Hark! That sound again! As of some 
living thing stepping cautiously on the boards. If I were 
not a cripple I would satisfy myself whether this villa is 
tormented by restless cats as well as haunted by unholy 
spirits. When will science supply mankind with the 
means of seeing, as well as hearing, what is transpiring on 
the other side of stone and wooden walls ? 

“ Ah, that door of his is creaking. It opens — shuts. I 
hear a murmur of voices, but cannot catch a word. 
Aimer’s voice of course — and the Advocate’s. No — the 
other voice and the soft footsteps are in partnership. 
Not the Advocate’s, nor any man’s. Men don’t tread like 
cats. It was a woman who passed my door, and who has 
been admitted into that room. Being a woman, what 
woman? If Fool Fritz were here, we would ferret it out 
between us before we were five minutes older. 

“ Still talking — talking — like the soft murmur of peace- 
ful waves. Ah ! a laugh ! By all that’s natural, a woman’s 
laugh ! It is a woman ! And I should know that silvery 
sound. There is a special music in a laugh which cannot 
be mistaken. It is distinctive — characteristic. 

“Ah, my lady, my lady! Fair face, false heart — but 
woman, woman all over ! ” 

And Pierre Lamont rubbed his hands, and also 
laughed — but his laugh was like his speech, silent, voice- 
less. 


ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 235 


CHAPTER IX 

CHRISTIAN ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 

U PON Christian Aimer’s desk lay the note written by 
Adelaide. He saw it the moment he entered the 
room, and knew, therefore, that some person had 
called during his absence. At first he thought it must 
have been the Advocate, who, not finding him in his room, 
had left the note for him ; but as he opened the envelope a 
faint perfume floated from it. 

“ It is from Adelaide,” he murmured. “ How often 
and how vainly have I warned her ! ” 

He read the note : 

“ Dear Christian : 

“ I cannot sleep until I wish you good-night, with no 
horrid people around us. Let me see you for one minute 
only. 

“ Adelaide.” 

To comply with her request at such an hour would be 
simple folly; infatuated as he was he would not deliber- 
ately commit himself to such an act. 

“ Surely she cannot have been here,” he thought. “ But 
if another hand placed this note upon my desk, another 
person must share the secret which it is imperative should 
never be revealed. I must be firm with her. There must 
be an end to this imprudence. Fortunately there is no 
place in Edward’s nature for suspicion.” 

He blushed with shame at the unworthy thought. Five 
years ago, could he have seen — he who up to that time 
never had stooped to meanness and deceit — the position in 
which he now stood, he would have rejected the mere sus- 
picion of its possibility with indignation. But by what 
fatally easy steps had he reached it ! 

In the midst of these reflections his heart almost stopped 
beating at the sound of a light footstep without. He 
listened, and heard a soft tapping on the door, not with the 


236 ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 

knuckles, but with the finger-tips ; he opened the door, and 
Adelaide stood smiling before him. 

With her finger at her lips she stepped into the room, 
and closed the door behind her. 

“ It would not do for me to be seen/’ she whispered. 
“ Do not be alarmed ; I shall not be here longer than one 
little minute. I have only come to wish you good-night. 
Give me a chair, or I shall sink to the ground. I am really 
very, very frightened. Quick ; bring me a chair. Do 
you not see how weak I am ? ” 

He drew a chair towards Her, and she sank languidly 
into it. 

“ As you would not come to me,” she said, “ I was com- 
pelled to come to you.” 

“ Compelled ! ” he said. 

They spoke in low tones, fearful lest their voices should 
travel beyond the room. 

“ Yes, compelled. I was urged by a spirit.” 

His face grew white. “ A spirit ! ” 

“ How you echo me, Christian. Y es, by a spirit, to 
which you yourself shall give a name. Shall we call it a 
spirit of restlessness, or jealousy, or love?” She gazed 
at him with an arch smile. 

“ Adelaide,” he said, “ your imprudence will ruin us.” 

“ Nonsense, Christian, nonsense,” she said lightly ; 
“ ruined because I happened to utter one little word ! To 
be sure I ought, so as to prove myself an apt pupil, to put 
a longer word before it, and call it platonic love. How 
unreasonable you are ! What harm is there in our having 
a moment’s chat? We are old friends, are we not? No, 
I will not let you interrupt me ; I know what you are going 
to say. You are going to say, Think of the hour! I de- 
cline to think of the hour. I think of nothing but you. 
And instead of looking delighted, as you should do, as any 
other man would do, there you stand as serious as an owl. 
Now, answer me, sir. Why did you not come to me the 
moment you received my note ? ” 

“ I had but just read it when you tapped at my door.” 

“ I forgive you. Where have you been ? With the 
Advocate ? ” 

“ No; I have been walking in the grounds.” 


ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 237 

“ You saw nothing, Christian? ” she asked with a little 
shiver. 

“Nothing to alarm or disturb me.” 

“There was a light in the Advocate’s study, was there 
not?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He will remain up late, and then he will retire to his 
room. My life is a very bright and beautiful life with 
him. He is so tender in his ways — so fond of pleasure — 
pays me so much attention, and such compliments — is so 
light-hearted and joyous — sings to me, dances with me! 
Oh, you don’t know him, you don’t indeed. I remember 
asking him to join in a cotillon ; you should have seen the 
look he gave me ! ” She laughed out loud - , and clapped 
her hand on her mouth to stifle the sound. “ I wonder 
whether he was ever young, like you and me. What a 
wonderful child he must have been — with scientific toys, 
and books always under his arm — yes, a wonderful child, 
holding in disdain little girls who wished him to join in 
their innocent games. What is your real opinion of him, 
Christian ? ” 

“ It pains me to hear you speak of him in that way.” 

“ It should please you ; but men are never satisfied. I 
speak lightly, do I not, but there are moments when I 
shudder at my fate. Confess, it is not a happy one.” 

“ It is not,” he replied, after a pause, “ but if I had not 
crossed your path, life would be full of joy for you.” 

It was not this he intended to say, but there was such 
compelling power in her lightest words that his very 
thoughts seemed to be under her dominion. 

“ There would have been no joy in my life,” she said, 
“ without you. We will not discuss it. What is, is. 
Sometimes when I think of things they make my head 
ache. Then I say, I will think of them no longer. If 
everybody did the same, would not this world be a great 
deal pleasanter than it is ? Oh, you must not forget what 
the Advocate called me to-night in your presence — a 
philosopher in petticoats. Don’t you see that even he is 
on my side, though it is against himself ? Of course one 
can’t help respecting him. He is a very learned man. He 
should have married a very learned woman. What a pity 


238 ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 


it is that I am not wise ! But that is not my fault. I hate 
learning, I hate science, I hate theories. What is the 
good of them? They say, this is not right, that is not 
right. And all we poor creatures can do is to look on in 
a state of bewilderment, and wonder what they mean. If 
people would only let the world alone, they would find it 
a very beautiful world. But they will not let it alone ; 
they will meddle. A flower, now — -is it not sweet — is it 
not enough that it is sent to give us pleasure ? But these 
disagreeable people say, ‘ Of what is this flower composed 
— is it as good as other flowers — has it qualities, and what 
qualities ? ’ What do I care ? I put it in my hair, and I 
am happy because it becomes me, because it is pretty, be- 
cause Nature sent it to me to enjoy. Why, I have actually 
made you smile ! ” 

“ Because there is a great deal of natural wisdom in 
what you are saying ” 

“ Natural wisdom ! There now, does it not prove I am 
right? Thank you, Christian. It comes to you to say 
exactly the right thing exactly at the right time. I shall 
begin to feel proud.” 

“ And,” continued Aimer, “ if you were only to talk to 
me like that in the middle of the day instead of the middle 
of the night ” 

She interrupted him again : 

“ You have undone it all with your ‘ ifs.’ What does 
it matter if it is in the middle of the day or the middle of 
the night? What is right, is right, is it not, without 
thinking of the time ? Don’t get disagreeable ; but indeed 
I will not allow you to be anything but nice to me. You 
have made me forget everything I was going to say.” 

“ Except one thing,” he said gravely, “ which you came 
to say, * Good-night.’ ” 

“ The minute is not gone yet,” she said with a silvery 
laugh. 

“ Many minutes, many minutes,” he said helplessly, 
“ and every minute is fraught with danger.” 

“ I will protect you,” she said with supreme assurance. 
“ Do not fear. I see quite plainly that if there is a dragon 
to kill I shall have to be the St. George. Well, I am ready. 
Danger is sweet when you are with me.” 


ALMER RECEIVES TWO VISITORS 239 

He was powerless against her; he resigned himself to 
his fate. 

“ Who brought your letter to my room? ” he asked. 

“ Dionetta.” 

“ Have you confided in her ? ” 

“ She knows nothing, and she is devoted to me. If the 
simple maid thought of the letter at all — as to what was 
in it, I mean — she thought, of course, that it was some- 
thing I wanted you to do for me to-morrow, and had for- 
gotten to tell you. But even here I was prudent, although 
you do not give me credit for prudence. I made her 
promise not to tell a soul, not even her grandmother, that 
queer, good old Mother Denise, that she had taken a letter 
from me to you. She did more than promise — she swore 
she would not tell. I bribed her, Christian — I gave her 
things, and to-night I gave her a pair of earrings. You 
should have witnessed her delight ! I would wager that 
she is at this moment no more asleep than I am. She is 
looking at herself in the glass, shaking her pretty little 
head to make the diamonds glisten.” 

“ Diamonds, Adelaide ! A simple maid like Dionetta 
with diamond earrings ! What will the folks say ? ” 

“Oh, they all know I am fond of her ” 

They started to their feet with a simultaneous move- 
ment. 

“ Footsteps ! ” whispered Aimer. 

“ The Advocate’s,” said Adelaide, and she glided to the 
door, and turned the key as softly as if it were made of 
velvet. 

“ He will see a light in the room,” said Christian. “ He 
has come to talk with me. What shall we do? ” 

She gazed at him with a bright smile. His face was 
white with apprehension; hers, red with excitement and 
exaltation. 

“ I am St. George,” she whispered ; “ but really there is 
no dragon to kill ; we have only to send him to sleep. Of 
course you must see him. I will conceal myself in the 
inner room, and you will lock me in, and put the key in 
your pocket, so that I shall be quite safe. Do not be un- 
easy about me ; I can amuse myself with books and 
pictures, and I will turn over the leaves so quietly that 


240 A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE WEB 


even a butterfly would not be disturbed. And when the 
dragon is gqne I will run away immediately. I am al- 
most sorry I came, it has distressed you so. ,, 

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and entered the 
adjoining room. Then, turning the key in the door 
Christian Aimer admitted the Advocate. 


CHAPTER X 

A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE WEB 

P AUSE we here a moment, and contemplate the 
threads of the web which Chance, Fate, or Retribu- 
tion was weaving round this man. 

With the exception of a few idle weeks in his youth, his 
life had been a life of honour and renown. His ambition 
was a worthy one, and success had not been attained with- 
out unwearying labour and devotion. Close study and 
application, zeal, earnestness, unflagging industry, these 
were the steps in the ladder he had climbed. Had it not 
been for his keen intellect these qualities would not have 
been sufficient to conduct him to the goal he had in view. 
Good luck is not to be despised, but unless it is allied with 
brain power of a high order only an ephemeral success 
can be achieved. 

Never, to outward appearance, was a great reputation 
more stable or better deserved. His wonderful talents, 
and the victories he had gained in the face of formidable 
odds, had destroyed all the petty jealousies with which he 
had to cope in the outset of his career, and he stood now 
upon a lofty pinnacle, acknowledged by all as a master in 
his craft. Wealth and distinction were his, and higher 
honours lay within his grasp ; and, in addition, he had won 
for his wife one of the most beautiful of women. It 
seemed as if the world had nothing to add to his happiness. 

And yet destruction stared him in the face. The fabric 
he had raised, on a foundation so secure that it appeared 
as if nothing could shake it, was tottering, and might fall, 
destroying him and all he had worked for in the ruins. 

He stood at the door of the only man in the world to 


A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE WEB 241 

whom he had given the full measure of his friendship. 
With all the strength of his nature he believed in Christian 
Aimer. In the gravest crisis of his life he would have 
called this friend to his side, and would have placed in his 
kands, without hesitation, his life, his reputation, and his 
honour. To Aimer, in their conversation, he had revealed 
what may be termed his inner life, that life the workings 
of which were concealed from all other men. And in this 
friend’s chamber his wife was concealed; and dishonour 
hung over him by the slenderest thread. Not only dis- 
honour, but unutterable grief, for he loved this woman 
with a most complete undoubting love. Little time had 
he for dalliance ; but he believed in his wife implicitly. 
His trust in her was a perfect trust. 

Within the room at the door of which he was waiting, 
stood his one friend, with white face and guilty conscience, 
about to admit him and grasp his hand. Had the heart 
of this friend been laid bare to him, he would have shrunk 
from it in horror and loathing, and from that moment to 
the last moment of his life the sentiment of friendship 
would have been to him the bitterest mockery and delusion 
with which man could be cursed. 

Not five yards from where he stood lay Pierre Lamont, 
listening and watching for proofs of the perfidy which 
would bring disgrace upon him — which would cause men 
and women to speak of him in terms of derision for his 
blindness and scorn for his weakness — which would 
make a byeword of him — of him, the great Advocate, who 
had played his part in many celebrated cases in which 
woman’s faithlessness and disloyalty were the prominent 
features — and which would cause him to regard the senti- 
ment of love as the falsest delusion with which mankind 
was ever afflicted. 

In the study he had left but a few minutes since slept 
a man who, in a certain sense, claimed comradeship with 
him, a man whom he had championed and set free, a self- 
confessed murderer, a wretch so vile that he had fled from 
him in horror at the act he had himself accomplished. 

And in the open air, upon a hill, a hundred yards from 
the House of White Shadows, lay John Vanbrugh, a 
friend of his youth, a man disgraced by his career, watch- 


242 


A CRISIS 


ing for the signal which would warrant him in coming for- 
ward and divulging what was in his mind. If what John 
Vanbrugh had disclosed in his mutterings during his 
lonely watch was true, he held in his hands the key to a 
mystery, which, revealed, would overwhelm the Advocate 
with shame and infamy. 

Thus was he threatened on all sides by friend and foe 
alike. 


CHAPTER XI 

A CRISIS 

“T TAVE I disturbed you, Christian?” asked the 

I — I Advocate, entering the room. “ I hesitated a 

I I moment or two, hearing no sound, but seeing 
your lamp was lighted, I thought you were up, and might 
be expecting me.” 

“ I had an idea you would come,” said Aimer, with a 
feeling of relief at the Advocate’s statement that he had 
heard no sound ; and then he said, so that he might be cer- 
tain of his ground, “ You have not been to my room be- 
fore to-night ? ” 

“ No; for the last two hours I have not left my study. 
Half an hour’s converse with you will do me good. I am 
terribly jaded.” 

“The reaction of the excitement of the long trial in 
which you have been engaged.” 

“ Probably ; though I have endured fatigue as great 
without feeling as jaded as I do now.” 

“You must take rest. Your doctors who prescribed 
repose for you would be angry if they were aware of the 
strain you have put upon your mind.” 

“ They do know. The physician I place the greatest 
faith in writes to me that I must have been mad to have 
undertaken Gautran’s defence. It might have been better 
if I had not entered into that trial.” 

“You have one consolation. Defended by a lawyer less 
eminent than yourself, an unfortunate man might have 
been convicted of a crime he did not commit.” 


A CRISIS 


243 


“ Yes,” said the Advocate slowly, “ that is true.” 

“ You compel admiration, Edward. With frightful 
odds against you, with the public voice against you, you 
voluntarily engage in a contest from which nothing is to 
be gained, and come out triumphant. I do not envy the 
feelings of the lawyers on the other side.” 

“ At least, Christian, as you have said, they have the 
public voice with them.” 

“ And you, Edward, have justice on your side, and the 
consciousness of right. The higher height is yours ; you 
must regard these narrower minds with a feeling of pity.” 

“ I have no feeling whatever for them ; they do not 
trouble me. Christian, we will quit the subject of Gau- 
tran ; you can well understand that I have had enough of 
him. Let us speak of yourself. I am an older man than 
you, and there is something of a fatherly interest in the 
friendship I entertain for you. Since my marriage I have 
sometimes thought if I had a son I should have been 
pleased if his nature resembled yours, and if I had a 
daughter it would be in the hands of such a man as your- 
self I should wish to place her happiness.” 

“ You esteem me too highly,” said Aimer, in a tone of 
sadness. 

“ I esteem you as you deserve, friend. Within your 
nature are possibilities you do not recognise. It is need- 
ful to be bold in this world, Christian; not arrogant, or 
over-confident, Or vain-glorious, but modestly bold. Un- 
less a man assert himself his powers will lie dormant ; and 
not to use the gifts with which we are endowed is a dis- 
tinct reproach upon us. I have heard able men say it is 
a crime to neglect our powers, for great gifts are bestowed 
upon us for others’ good as well as for our own. Besides, 
it is healthy in every way to lead a busy life, to set our 
minds upon the accomplishment of certain tasks. If we 
fail — well, failure is very often more honourable than suc- 
cess. We have at least striven to mount the hill which 
rises above the pettiness and selfishness of our everyday 
life; we have at least proved ourselves worthy of the 
spiritual influences which prompt the execution of noble 
deeds. You did not reply to the letter I sent you in the 
mountains ; but Adelaide heard from you, and that is suffi- 


244 A CRISIS 

cient. Sufficient, also, that you are here with us, and 
that we know we have a true friend in the house. You 
were many weeks in the mountains.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Were you engaged on any work? Did you paint or 
write ? ” 

“ I made a few sketches, which pleased me one day and 
displeased me the next, so I tore them up and threw 
them away. There is enough indifferent work in the 
world.” 

“ Nothing short of perfection will satisfy you,” said the 
Advocate with a serious smile ; “ but some men must 
march in the ranks.” 

“ I am not worthy even of that position,” said Aimer 
moodily. 

The Advocate regarded him with thoughtful eyes. 

“ If your mind is not deeply reflective, if your power of 
observation applies only to the surface of things, you are 
capable of imparting what some call tenderness and I call 
soul, to every subject which presents itself to you. I have 
detected this in your letters and conversation. It is a 
valuable quality. I grant that you may be unfit to cope 
with practical matters, but in your study you would be 
able to produce works which would charm if they did not 
instruct. There is in you a heart instinct which, as it 
forms part of your nature, would display itself in every- 
thing you wrote.” 

“ Useless, Edward, useless ! My father was an author ; 
it brought him no happiness.” 

“ How do you know ? It may have afforded him con- 
solation, and that is happiness. But I was not speaking 
of happiness. The true artist does not look to results. 
He has only one aim and one desire — to produce a perfect 
work. His task being done — not that he produces a per- 
fect work, but the ennoblement lies in the aspiration and 
the earnest application — that being done, he has accom- 
plished something worthy, whatever its degree of excel- 
lence. The day upon which a man first devotes himself 
to such labour he awakes within his being a new and de- 
lightful life, the life of creative thought. Fresh wonders 
continually reveal themselves — quaint suggestions, ex- 


A CRISIS 245 

quisite fancies, and he makes use of them according to the 
strength of his intellect. He enriches the world.” 

“ And if he is a poor man, starves.” 

“ Maybe; but he wears the crown. You, however, are 
rich.” 

“ Nothing to be grateful for. I had no incentive to 
effort, therefore I stand to-day an idle, aimless man. You 
have spoken of books. When I looked at crowded book- 
shelves, I should blush at the thought of adding to them 
any rubbish of my own creation.” 

“ I find no fault with you for that. Blush if you like — 
but work, produce.” 

“ And let the world call me vain and presumptuous.” 

“ Give it the chance of judging; it may be the other 
way. Perhaps the greatest difficulty we have to encoun- 
ter in life is in the discovery of that kind of work for 
which we are best fitted. Fortunate the man who gravi- 
tates to it naturally, and who, having the capacity to be- 
come a fine shoemaker, is not clapped upon a watchmaker’s 
bench instead of a cobbler’s stool. Being fitted, he is 
certain to acquire some kind of distinction. Believe me, 
Christian, it is not out of idleness, or for the mere purpose 
of making conversation that I open up this subject. It 
would afford me great pleasure if you were in a more 
settled frame of mind. You cannot disguise from me 
that you are uneasy, perhaps unhappy. I see it this very 
moment in your wandering glances, and in the difficulty 
you experience in fixing your attention upon what I am 
saying. You are not satisfied with yourself. You have 
probably arrived at that stage when a man questions him- 
self as to what is before him — when he reviews the past, 
and discovers that he has allowed the years to slip by with- 
out having made an effort to use them to a worthy end. 
You ask yourself, ‘ Is it for this I am here? Are there not 
certain duties which I ought to perform? If I allow the 
future to slip away as the past has done, without having 
accomplished a man’s work in the world, I shall find 
myself one day an old man, of whom it may be said, “ He 
lived only for himself ; he had no thought, no desire be- 
yond himself ; the struggles of humanity, the advance of 
civilisation, the progress and development of thought 


246 


A CRISIS 


which have effected such marvellous changes in the 
aspects of society, the exposing of error — these things 
touched him not ; he bore no part in them, but stood idly 
by, a careless observer, whose only ambition it was to 
utilise the hours to his own selfish pleasures.” ’ A heavy 
charge, Christian. What you want is occupation. Poli- 
tics — your inclinations do not lead that way; trade is 
abhorrent to you. You are not sufficiently frivolous to 
develop into a butterfly leader of fashion. Law is distaste- 
ful to you. Science demands qualities which you do not 
possess. For a literary life you are specially adapted. I 
say to you, turn your attention to it for a while. If it dis- 
appoint you, it is easy to relinquish it. It will be but an 
attempt made in the right direction. But understand, 
Christian, without earnestness, without devotion, without 
application, it will be useless to make the attempt.” 

“ And that is precisely the reason why I hesitate to 
make it. I am wanting in firmness of purpose. I doubt 
myself ; I should have begun earlier.” 

“ But you will think over what I have said ? ” 

“ Yes, I will think of it, and I cordially thank you.” 

“ And now tell me how you enjoyed yourself in the 
mountains.” 

“ Passably well. It was a negative sort of life. There 
was no pleasure in it, and no pain. One day was so exactly 
like another, that I should scarcely have been surprised if 
I had awoke one morning and discovered that in the dull 
uniformity of the hours my hair had grown white and I 
into an old man. The principal subject of interest was the 
weather, and that palled so soon that sunshine or storm 
became a matter of indifference to me.” 

“ Look at me a moment, Christian.” 

They sat gazing at each other in silence for a little while. 
There was an unusual tenderness in the Advocate’s eyes 
which pierced Christian Aimer to the heart. During 
the whole of this .interview the thought never left his 
mind : 

“ If he knew the part I am playing towards him — if he 
suspected that simply by listening at this inner door he 
could hear his wife’s soft breathing — in what way would 
he call me to account for my treachery ? ” 


A CRISIS 247 

He dreaded every moment that something would occur 
to betray him. 

Adelaide was careless, reckless. If she made a move- 
ment to attract attention, if she overturned a chair, if she 
let a book fall, what was he to say in answer to the Advo- 
cate’s questioning look? 

But all was quiet within; he was tortured only by the 
whisperings of his conscience. 

“ You are suffering, Christian,” said the Advocate. 

Aimer knew intuitively that on this point, as on many 
others, it would be useless to attempt to deceive the Advo- 
cate. To return an evasive answer might arouse sus- 
picion. He said simply: 

“ Yes, I am suffering.” 

“ It is not bodily suffering, though your pulse is fever- 
ish.’' He had taken Aimer’s wrist, and his fingers were on 
the pulse. “ Your disease is mental.” He paused, but 
Aimer did not speak. “ It is no breach of confidence,” con- 
tinued the Advocate, “ to tell you that on the first day of 
my entering Geneva, Jacob Hartrich and I had a conversa- 
tion about you. There was nothing said that need be kept 
private. We conversed as two men might converse con- 
cerning an absent friend in whom both took an affection- 
ate interest. He had noticed a change in you which I have 
noticed since I entered this room. When you visited him 
he was impressed by an unusual strangeness in your man- 
ner. That strangeness of manner, without your being 
aware of it, is upon you now. He said that you were rest- 
less and ill at ease. You are at this moment restless and ill 
at ease. The muscles of your face, your eyes, your hands, 
are not under your control. They respond to the mental 
disease which causes you to suffer. You will forgive me for 
saying that you convey to me the impression that you 
would be more at ease at the present time if I were not 
with you.” 

“ I entreat you,” said Aimer eagerly, “ not to think so.” 

“ I accept your assurance, which, nevertheless, does not 
convince me that I am wrong in my impression. The 
friendship which exists between us is too close and bind- 
ing — x m ay even go so far as to say, too sacred — for me, a 
colder and more experienced man than yourself, to allow it 


248 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 


to be affected by any matter outside its boundary. Deprive 
it of sympathy, and friendship is an unmeaning word. I 
sympathise with you deeply, sincerely, without knowing 
how to relieve you. I ask you frankly, however, one ques- 
tion which you may freely answer. Have you fixed your 
affections upon a woman who does not reciprocate your 
love ? ” 

The Advocate was seated by the desk upon which Aimer 
had, after reading it, carelessly thrown the note written to 
him by Adelaide, and as he put the question to his friend, 
he involuntarily laid his hand upon this damning evidence 
of his wife’s disloyalty. 


CHAPTER XII 

SELF-JUSTIFICATION 

T HE slight action and the significant question pre- 
sented a coincidence so startling that Christian 
Aimer was fascinated by it. That there was 
premeditation or design in the coincidence, or that the 
Advocate had cunningly led the conversation to this point 
for the purpose of confounding him and bringing him face 
to face with his treachery, did not suggest itself to his 
mind. He was, indeed, incapable of reasoning coherently. 
All that he was momentarily conscious of was, that dis- 
covery was imminent, that the sword hung over him, 
suspended by a hair. Would it fall, and in its fall compel 
into a definite course the conflicting passions by which he 
was tortured? 

It would, perhaps, be better so. Already did he experi- 
ence a feeling of relief at this suggestion, and it appeared 
to him as if he were bending his head for the welcome 
blow. 

But all was still and quiet, and through the dim mist 
before his eyes he saw the Advocate gazing kindly upon 
him. 

Then there stole upon him a wild prompting, a mad 
impulse, to expedite discovery by his own voluntary act — 
to say to the Advocate : 


249 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 

“ I have betrayed you. Read that note beneath your 
hand ; take this key, and open yonder door ; find there your 
wife. What do you propose to do? ” 

The words did actually shape themselves in his mind, 
and he half believed that he had uttered them. They 
did not, however, escape his lips. He was instinctively 
restrained by the consideration that in his punishment 
Adelaide would be involved. What right had he deliber- 
ately to ruin and expose her ? A cowardly act thus to sac- 
rifice a woman who in this crisis relied upon him for pro- 
tection. In a humiliating, shameful sense it is true, but 
none the less was she under his direct protection at this 
moment. Self-tortured as he was he could still show that 
he had some spark of manliness left in him. To recklessly 
dispose of the fate of the woman whose only crime was 
that she loved him — this he dared not do. 

His mood changed. Arrived at this conclusion, his fear 
now was that he had betrayed himself — that in some indef- 
inite way he had given the Advocate the key to his 
thoughts, or that he had, by look or expression, conveyed 
to his friend a sense of the terrible importance of the per- 
fumed note which lay upon the desk. 

“ You do not answer me, Christian,” said the Advocate. 

But Aimer could not speak. His eyes were fixed upon 
Adelaide’s note, and he found it impossible to divert his 
attention from the idle movements of the Advocate’s fin- 
gers. His unreasoning impulse to hasten discovery was 
gone, and he was afflicted now by a feeling of apprehen- 
sion. It was his imperative duty to protect Adelaide ; while 
the Advocate’s hand rested upon the envelope which con- 
tained her secret she was not safe. At all risks, even at the 
hazard of his life, must she be held blameless. Had the 
Advocate lifted the envelope from the desk, Aimer would 
have torn it from him. 

“Why do you not speak?” asked the Advocate. “Surely 
there is nothing offensive in such a question between 
friends like ourselves.” 

“ I can offer you no explanation of what I am about to 
say,” replied Aimer : “ it may sound childish, trivial, piti- 
ful, but my thoughts are not under my own control while 
your hand is upon that letter.” 


250 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 


With the slightest expression of surprise the Advocate 
handed Aimer the envelope, scarcely looking at it as it 
passed from his possession. 

“ Why did you not speak of it before ? ” he said. “ But 
when a mind is unbalanced, trifling matters are magnified 
into importance.” 

“ I can only ask you to forgive me,” said Aimer, placing 
the envelope in his pocket-book. “ I have no doubt in the 
course of your career you have met with many small inci- 
dents quite as inexplicable.” Then an excuse which would 
surely be accepted occurred to him. “ It may be sufficient 
for me to say that this is the first night of my return to 
the house in which I was born and passed a not too happy 
boyhood, and that in this room my mother died.” 

The Advocate pressed Aimer’s hand. 

“ There is no need for another word. You have been 
looking over some old family papers, and they have 
aroused melancholy reminiscences. I should have been 
more thoughtful ; I was wrong in coming to you. It will 
be best to say good-night.” 

But Aimer, anxious to avoid the slightest cause for sus- 
picion in the right direction, said : 

“ Nay, stay with me a few minutes longer, or I shall 
reproach myself for having behaved unreasonably. You 
were asking ” 

“A delicate question. Whether you love without being 
loved in return ? ” 

“ No, Edward, that is not the case with me.” 

“ You have no intention of marrying? ” 

“ No.” 


“ Then your heart is still free. You reassure me. You 
are not suffering from what has been described as the 
most exquisite of all human sufferings — unrequited love. 
Neither have you experienced a disappointment in friend- 
ship?” 

“No. I have scarcely a friend with the exception of 
yourself.” 

“And my wife. You must not forget her. She takes a 
cordial interest in you.” 

“ Yes, and your wife.” 

“ It was Jacob Hartrich who suggested that you might 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 251 

haye met with a disappointment in love or friendship. I 
disputed it, in the belief that had it been unhappily so you 
would have confided in me. I am glad that I was right. 
Shall I continue ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ The banker, who entertains the most kindly senti- 
ments towards you, based all his conjectures upon a cer- 
tain remark which made a strong impression upon him. 
You told him you were weary of the gaiety and the light 
and bustle of cities, and that it was your intention to seek 
some solitude where, by a happy chance, you might rid 
yourself of a terror which possessed you. I can under- 
stand your weariness of the false glare of fashionable 
city life; it can never for any long period satisfy the 
intellect. But neither can it instil a terror into a 
man’s soul. That would spring from another and a 
deeper cause.” 

“ The words were hastily spoken. Look upon them as 
an exaggeration.” 

“ I certainly regard them in that light, but they were not 
an invention, and there must have been a serious motive 
for them. It is not in vain that I have studied your char- 
acter, although I feel that I did not master the study. I am 
subjecting you, Christian, to a kind of mental analysis, in 
an endeavour to arrive at a conclusion which will enable 
me to be of assistance to you. And I do not disguise, from 
you that, were it in my power, I would assist you even 
against your will. Our friendship, and my age and mor£. 
varied experience, would justify me. I do not seek to 
force your confidence, but I ask you in the spirit of true 
friendship to consider — not at present, but in a few days, 
when your mind is in a calmer state — whether such coun- 
sel and guidance as it may be in my power to offer will not 
be a real help to you. Do not lightly reject my assistance in 
probing a painful wound. I will use my knife gently. 
There was a time when I believed there was nothing that 
could happen to either of us which we should be unwilling 
to confide each to the other, freely and without restraint. 
I find I am not too old to learn the lesson that the strong- 
est beliefs, the firmest convictions, may be seriously weak- 
ened by the occurrence of circumstances for which the 


252 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 


wisest foresight could not have provided. Keep, then, 
your secret, if you are so resolved, and bear in mind that 
on the day you come to me and say, ‘ Edward, help me, 
guide me,’ you will find me ready. I shall not fail you, 
Christian, in any crisis.” 

Aimer rose and slowly paced the room, while the Advo- 
cate sat back in his chair, and watched his friend with 
affectionate solicitude. 

“ Does this lesson,” presently said Aimer, “which you 
are not too old to learn, spring entirely from the newer 
impressions you are receiving of my character, or has 
something in your mind which you have not disclosed 
helped to lead you to it ? ” 

It was a chance shot, but it strangely hit the mark. The 
question brought forcibly to the Advocate’s mind the posi- 
tion in which he himself was placed by Gautran’s confes- 
sion, and by his subsequent resolve to conceal the knowl- 
edge of Gautran’s crime. 

“ What a web is the world ! ” he thought. “ How the 
lines which here are widely apart, but a short space beyond 
cross and are linked in closest companionship ! ” Both 
Christian and himself had something to conceal, and it 
would be acting in bad faith to his friend were he to return 
an evasive answer. 

“ It is not entirely from the newer impressions you 
speak of that I learn the lesson. It springs partly from a 
matter which disturbs my mind.” 

“ Referring to me ? ” 

“ No, to myself. You are not concerned in it.” 

In his turn Aimer now became the questioner. 

“A new experience of your own, Edward ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Which must have occurred to you since we were last 
together ? ” 

“ It originated during your absence.” 

“ Which came upon you unaware — for which your fore- 
sight could not have provided ? ” 

“ At all events it did not.” 

“You speak seriously, Edward, and your face is 
clouded.” 

“ It is a very serious matter.” 


253 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 

“ Can I help you ? Is it likely that my advice would be 
of assistance ? ” 

“ I can speak of it to no one.” 

“ You also have a secret then? ” 

“ Yes, I also have a secret.” 

Christian Aimer appeared to gather strength — a war- 
ranty, as it were, for his own wrong-doing — from the 
singular direction the conversation had taken. It was as 
though part of a burden was lifted from him. He was not 
the only one who was suffering — he was not the only one 
who was standing on a dangerous brink — he was not the 
only one who had drifted into dangerous waters. Even 
this strong-brained man, this Advocate who had seemingly 
held aloof from pleasure, whose days and nights had been 
given up to study, whose powerful intellect could pierce 
dark mysteries and bring them into clear light, who was 
the last man in the world who could be suspected of yield- 
ing to a prompting of which his judgment and conscience 
could not approve — even he had a secret which he was 
guarding with jealous care. Was it likely then, that he, 
the younger and the more impressionable of the two, could 
escape snares into which the Advocate had fallen? The 
fatalist’s creed recurred to him. All these matters of life 
were preordained. What folly — what worse than folly, 
what presumption, for one weak man to attempt to stem 
the irresistible current ! It was delivering himself up to 
destruction. Better to yield and float upon the smooth tide 
and accept what good or ill fate has in store for him. 
What use to infuse into the sunlight, and the balmy air, 
and into all the sweets of life, the poison of self-torture? 
The confession he had extracted from the Advocate was in 
a certain sense a justification of himself. He would pur- 
sue the subject still further. As he had been questioned, 
so he would question. It was but just. 

“ To judge from your manner, Edward, your secret is 
no light one.” 

“ It is of most serious import.” 

“ I almost fear to ask a question which occurs to me.” 

“Ask freely. I have been candid with you, in my desire 
to ascertain how I could help you in your trouble. Be 
equally candid with me.” 


254 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 


“ But it may be misconstrued. I am ashamed that it 
should have suggested itself — for which, of course, the 
worser part of me is responsible. No — it shall remain 
unspoken.” 

“ I should prefer that you asked it — nay, I desire you to 
do so. There is no fear of misconstruction. Do you think 
I wish to stand in your eyes as a perfect man? That 
would be arrogant, indeed. Or that I do not know that 
you and I and all men are possessed of contradictions 
which, viewed in certain aspects, may degrade the most 
noble? The purest of us — men and women alike — have 
undignified thoughts, unworthy imaginings, to which we 
would be loth to give utterance. But sometimes, as in 
this instance, it becomes a duty. I have had occasion 
quite lately to question myself closely, and I have fallen in 
my own estimation. There is more baseness in me than I 
imagined. Hesitate no longer. Ask your question, and 
as many more as may arise from it ; these things 
are frequently hydra-headed. I shall know how far 
to answer without disclosing what I desire shall remain 
buried.” 

Aimer put his question boldly. 

“ Is the fate of a woman involved in your secret? ” 

An almost imperceptible start revealed to Aimer’s eyes 
that another chance arrow had hit the mark. Truly, a 
woman’s fate formed the kernel of the. Advocate’s secret 
— a virtuous, innocent woman who had been most foully 
murdered. He answered in set words, without any at- 
tempt at evasion. 

“ Yes, a woman’s fate is involved in it.” 

“ Your wife’s? ” Had his life depended upon it, Aimer 
could not have kept back the words. 

“ No, not my wife’s.” 

“ In that case,” said Aimer slowly, “ a man’s honour is 
concerned.” 

“ You guess aright — a man’s honour is concerned.” 

“ Yours?” 

“ Mine.” 

For a few moments neither of them spoke, and then the 
Advocate said : 

“ To men suspicious of each other — as most men natu- 


255 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 

rally are, and generally with reason — such a turn in our 
conversation, and indeed the entire conversation in which 
we have indulged, might be twisted to fatal disadvantage. 
In the way of conjecture I mean — as to what is the essence 
of the secret which I do not reveal to my dearest friend, 
and the essence of that which my dearest friend does not 
reveal to me. It is fortunate, Christian, that you and I 
stand higher than most. We have rarely hesitated to 
speak heart to heart and soul to soul ; and if, by some 
strange course of events, there has arisen in each of our 
inner lives a mystery which we have decided not to reveal, 
it will not weaken the feeling of affection we entertain for 
each other. Is that so, Christian ? ” 

“ Yes, it is so, Edward.” 

“ Men of action, of deep thought, of strong passion, of 
sensitive natures, are less their own masters than peasants 
who take no part in the turmoil of the world. An unevent- 
ful life presents fewer temptations, and there is therefore 
more freedom in it. We live in an atmosphere of wine, 
and often miss our way. Well, we must be indulgent to 
each other, and be sometimes ready to say, ‘ The position 
of difficulty into which you have been thrust, the error you 
have committed, the sin — yes, even the sin — of which you 
have been guilty, may have fallen to my lot had I been 
placed in similar circumstances. It is not I who will be the 
first to condemn you.’ ” 

“ Even,” said Aimer, “ if that error or that sin may be a 
grievous wrong inflicted against yourself. Even then you 
would be ready to excuse and forgive ? ” 

“ Yes, even in that case. I should be taking a narrow 
view of an argument if I applied to all the world what I 
hesitated to apply to myself.” 

“ So that the committal of a great wrong may be justi- 
fied by circumstances ? ” 

“ Yes, I will go as far as that. The fault of the child 
or the fault of the man, is but a question of degree. Some 
err deliberately, some are hurried into error by passions 
which master them.” 

“ By natural passions ? ” 

“All such passions are natural, although it is the fashion 
to condemn them when they clash with the conditions of 


256 


SELF-JUSTIFICATION 


social life. The workings of the moral and sympathetic 
affections are beyond our own control.” 

“ Of those who have erred with deliberate intention and 
those who have been hurried blindly into error, which 
should you be most ready to forgive ? ” 

“ The latter,” replied the Advocate, conscious that in his 
answer he was condemning himself ; “ they are compara- 
tively innocent, having less power over, and being less able 
to retrace their steps.” 

“ You pause,” said Aimer, a sudden thrill agitating his 
veins. “Why?” 

“ I thought I heard a sound — like a suppressed laugh ! 
Did you not hear it ? ” 

“ No. I heard nothing.” 

Aimer’s teeth met in scorn of himself as he uttered this 
falsehood. The sound of the laugh was low but distinct, 
and it proceeded from the room in which Adelaide was 
concealed. 

The Advocate stepped to the door by which he had en- 
tered, and looked up and down the passage, to which two 
lamps gave light. It was quiet and deserted. 

“ My fancy,” he said, standing within the half-open 
door. “ My physicians know more of the state of my 
nerves than I do myself. It is interesting, however, to 
observe one’s own mental delusions. But I. was wrong in 
mixing myself up with that trial.” 

Still that trial. Always that trial. It seemed to him as 
if he could never forget it, as if it would forever abide 
with him. It coloured his thoughts, it gave form to his 
arguments. Would it end by changing his very nature? 

“ You are over-wrought, Edward,” said Aimer. “ If 
you were to seek what I have sought, solitude, it might be 
more beneficial to you than it has been to me.” 

“ There is solitude enough for me in this retired vil- 
lage,” said the Advocate, “ and had I not undertaken the 
defence of Gautran, my health by this time might have 
been completely established. We are here sufficiently re- 
moved from the fierce passions of the world — they cannot 
touch us in this primitive birthplace of yours. Do you rec- 
ognise how truly I spoke when I said that men like our- 
selves are the slaves, and peasants the free men ? Besides, 


SHADOWS 257 

Christian, there is a medicine in friendship such as yours 
which I defy the doctors to rival. Even though there has 
been a veil over our confidences to-night, I feel that this 
last hour has been of benefit to me. You know that I am 
much given to thinking to myself. As a rule, at those 
times, one walks in a narrow groove ; if he argues, the con- 
tradiction he receives is of that mild character that it can 
be easily proved wrong. No wonder, when the thinker 
creates it for the purpose of proving'himself right. It is 
seldom healthy, this solitary communionship — it leads 
rarely to just conclusions. But in conversation new bye- 
roads reveal themselves, in which we wander pleasantly — 
new vistas appear — new suggestions arise, to give variety 
to the argument and to show that it has more than one 
selfish side. He who leads entirely a life of thought lives 
a dead life. Good-night, Christian. I have kept you from 
your rest. Good-night. Sleep well.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

SHADOWS 

C HRISTIAN ALMER stood at the door, gazing at 
the retreating figure of the Advocate. It passed 
through the clear light of the lamps, became 
blurred, was merged in the darkness. The corridor was 
long, and before the Advocate reached the end he was 
a shadow among shadows. 

In Aimer’s excited mood the slightest impressions be- 
came the medium for distorted reflection. The dim form 
of the Advocate was pregnant with meaning, and when it 
was finally lost to sight, Aimer’s eyes followed an invisible 
figure moving, not through space, but through events in 
which he and his friend and Adelaide were the principal 
actors. A wild whirl of images crowded to his mind, pre- 
senting in the midst of their confusion defined and distinct 
pictures, the leading features of which were t}ie conse- 
quences arising from the double betrayal of love and 
friendship. Violent struggles, deadly embraces — in 
houses, in forests, on the brinks of precipices, in the tor- 


258 


SHADOWS 


rents of furious rivers. The proportions of these images 
were vast, titanic. The forests were interminable, the 
trees rose to an immense height, the rivers resembled rag- 
ing seas, the presentments of animated life were of unnat- 
ural magnitude. Even when he and Adelaide were flying 
through a trackless wood, and were overtaken by the Ad- 
vocate, this impression of gigantic growth prevailed, as 
though there were room in the world for naught but them- 
selves and the passions by which they were swayed. 

He was recalled to himself by a soft tapping at the door 
of the inner room. He instantly unlocked it, and released 
Adelaide, who raised her eyes, beaming with animation, 
to his. 

He was overcome with astonishment. He thought to 
see her pale, frightened, trembling. Never had he beheld 
her more radiant. 

“ He is gone,” she said in a gay tone. 

“ Hush ! ” whispered Aimer, “ he may return.” 

“ He will not,” she said. “ You will see him no more 
to-night.” 

“ Thank Heaven the danger is averted ! I feel as if I 
had been guilty of some horrible crime.” . 

“ Whereas you have simply indulged poor innocent me 
in a harmless fancy. Christian, I heard every word.” 

“ I thought you would have fallen asleep. How could 
you have been so imprudent, so reckless, as to laugh ? ” 

“ How can I help being a woman of impulse ? Were 
you very much frightened? I was not — I rather enjoyed 
it. Christian, there is not a single thing my immaculate 
husband does which does not convince me he has no heart. 
Just think what might have happened if he had come to the 
right door and thrown it open and seen me! There! 
You look so horrified that I feel I have said something 
wrong again. Christian, what did you mean by saying to 
him, ‘ My thoughts are not under my control while you 
have your hand on that letter ’ ? What letter was it ? ” 

“ Your note, which Dionetta left in the room. He was 
sitting by the desk upon which I had laid it, and his hand 
was upon it.” 

“And it made you nervous? To think that he had but 
to open that innocent bit of paper! What a scene there 


SHADOWS 


259 


would have been ! I should have gloried in the situation — 
yes, indeed. There is no pleasure in life like the excite- 
ment of danger. Those who say women are weak know 
nothing of us. We are braver than men, a thousand, thou- 
sand times braver. I tried to peep through the door, but 
there wasn’t a single friendly crevice. What a shock it 
would have given him if I had suddenly called out as he 
held the letter : ‘ Open it, my love, open it and read it ! ’ ” 

“ That is what you call being prudent ? ” said Aimer in 
despair. 

“ Tyrant ! I cannot promise you not to think. I have 
a good mind to be angry with you. You are positively 
ungrateful. You shut me up in a room all by myself, 
where I quietly remain, the very soul of discretion — you 
did not so much as hear me breathe — only forgetting my- 
self once when my feelings overcame me, and you don’t 
give me one word of praise. Tell me instantly, sir, that I 
am a brave little woman.” 

“ You are the personification of rashness.” 

“ How ungrateful ! Did you think of me, Christian, 
while I was locked up there ? ” 

“ My thoughts did not wander from you for a moment.” 

“ If you had only given me a handful of these rose- 
leaves so that I might have buried my face in them and 
imagined I was not tied to a man who loves another 
woman than his wife ! You seem amazed. Do you for- 
get already what has passed between you ? If it had hap- 
pened that I loved him, after his confession to-night I 
should hate him. But it is indifferent to me upon whom 
he has set his affections — with all my heart I pity the un- 
fortunate creature he loves. She need not fear me; I 
shall not harm her. You got at the heart of his secret 
when you asked him if a woman was involved in it ; and 
you compelled him to confess that his honour — and of 
course hers ; mine does not matter — was at stake in his mis- 
erable love-affair. He loves a woman who is not his wife ; 
with all his evasions he could not help admitting it. And 
this is the man who holds his head so high above all other 
men — the man who was never known to commit an indis- 
cretion! Of course he must keep his secret close — of 
course he could not speak of it to his friend, whom he tries 


260 THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 

to hoodwink with professions and twisted words ! He 
married me, I suppose, to satisfy his vanity; he wanted 
the world to see that old as he was, grave as he was, no 
woman could resist him. And I allowed myself to be per- 
suaded by worldly friends ! Is it not a proof of my never 
having loved him, that, instead of hating him when in my 
hearing he confesses he loves another, I simply laugh at 
him and despise him ? I should not shed a tear over him 
if he died to-night. He has insulted me — and what 
woman ever forgets or forgives an insult? But he has 
done me a good service, too, and I thank him. How 
sleepy I am ! Good-night. My minute is up, and I can- 
not stay longer; I must think of my complexion. Good- 
night, Christian ; that is all I came to say.” 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE ADVOCATE FEARS HE HAS CREATED A MONSTER 

T HE Advocate did not immediately return to his 
study. Darkness was more congenial to his mood, 
and he spent a few minutes in the gardens of the 
villa. Although he had stated to Christian Aimer that the 
conversation which had passed between them had been of 
benefit to him, he felt, now that he was alone, that there 
was much in it to give rise to disturbing thought and con- 
jecture. He had not foreseen the difficulty, in social in- 
tercourse, of avoiding the subject uppermost in his mind. 
A morbid self-consciousness, at present in its germ, and 
from which he had hitherto been entirely free, seemed to 
unlock all roads in its direction. It was, as it were, the 
converging-point of all matters, even the most trivial, 
affecting himself. Having put the seal upon his resolution 
with respect to Gautran’s confession, he became painfully 
aware that he had committed himself to a line of action 
from which he could not now recede without laying him- 
self open to such suspicion, from friend and foe alike, as 
might fatally injure his reputation. He was a lawyer, and 
he knew what powerful use he could make of such a 
weapon against any man, high or low. If it could be 


THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 261 

turned against another it could be turned against himself. 
He must not, therefore, waver in his resolution. Only his 
conscience could call him to account. Well, he would 
reckon with that. It was a passive, not an active accuser. 
Gautran would seek some new locality, in which he would 
be lost to sight. As a matter of common prudence, it was 
more than likely he would change his name. The suspic- 
ion which attached itself to him, and the horror with which 
he was regarded in the neighbourhood in which he had 
lived, would compel him to fly to other pastures. In this, 
and in the silence of time, lay the Advocate’s safety, for 
every day that passed would weaken the fever of excite- 
ment created by the trial. After a few weeks, if it even 
happened that Gautran were insanely to make a public 
declaration of his guilt, and to add to this confession a 
statement that the Advocate was aware of it during the 
trial, by whom would he be believed? Certainly not by 
the majority of the better classes of the people ; and in the 
event of such a contingency, he could quote with effect the 
poet’s words : “ Be thou chaste as, ice, and pure as snow, 
thou shalt not escape calumny.” 

So much, then, for himself ; but he was more than ever 
anxious and ill at ease regarding Christian Aimer. The 
secret which his friend dared not divulge to him was evi- 
dently of the gravest import — probably as terrible in its 
way as that which lay heavily on the Advocate’s soul ; and 
the profound mystery in which it was wrapt invested it 
with a significance so unusual, even in ther Advocate’s 
varied experience of human nature, that he could not keep 
from brooding upon it. Was it a secret in which honour 
was involved ? He could not bring himself to believe that 
Aimer could be guilty of a dishonourable act — but a man 
might be dragged into a difficulty against his will, and 
might have a burden of shame unexpectedly thrust upon 
him which he could not openly fling off without disgrace. 
And yet — and yet — that he should be so careful in con- 
cealing it from the knowledge of tbe truest of friends — it 
was inexplicable. Ponder as long as he might, the Ad- 
vocate could arrive at no explanation of it, nor could his 
logical mind obtain the slightest clue to the mystery. 

The cool air in the gardens refreshed him, and he 


262 THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 

walked about, always within view of the lights in his study 
windows, with his head uncovered. It was during the 
first five minutes of his solitude that an impression stole 
upon him that he was not alone. He searched the avenues, 
he listened, he asked aloud : 

“ Is any person near, and does he wish to speak to me? ” 

No voice answered him. The gardens, with the excep- 
tion of the soft rustling of leaf and branch, were as silent 
as the grave. Towards the end of his solitary rambling, 
and as he was contemplating leaving the grounds, this im- 
pression again stole upon him. Was it the actual sound of 
muffled footsteps, or the spiritual influence of an unseen 
presence, which disturbed him? He could not decide. 
Again he searched the avenues, again he listened, again he 
asked a question aloud. All was silent. 

This was the third time during the night that he had 
allowed himself to be beguiled. Once in Christian Ai- 
mer’s room, when he thought he had heard a laugh, and 
now twice in the solitude of the grounds. He set it down 
as an unreasoning fancy springing from the agitation into 
which he had been thrown by his interview with Gautran, 
and he breathed a wish that the next fortnight were passed, 
when his mind would almost certainly have recovered its 
equilibrium. The moment the wish was born, he smiled 
in contempt of his own weakness. It opened another vein 
in the psychological examination to which he was sub- 
jecting himself. 

He entered his study, and did not perceive Gautran, 
who was asleep in the darkest corner of the room. But 
his quick observant eye immediately fell upon the glass out 
of which Gautran had drunk the wine. The glass was on 
his writing-table ; it was not there when he left his study. 
He glanced at the wine-bottles on the sideboard ; they had 
been disturbed. 

“ Some person has been here in my absence,” he 
thought. “ Who — and for what purpose ? ” 

He hastily examined his manuscripts and, missing none, 
raised the wine-glass and held it mouth downwards. As 
a couple of drops of red liquor fell to the ground, he heard 
behind him the sound of heavy breathing. 

An ordinary man would have let the glass fall from his 


THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 263 

hand in sudden alarm, for the breathing was so deep, and 
strong, and hoarse, that it might have proceeded from the 
throat of a wild beast who was preparing to spring upon 
him. But the Advocate was not easily alarmed. He care- 
fully replaced the glass, and wheeled in the direction of 
the breathing. He saw the outlines of a form stretched 
upon the ground in a distant corner ; he stepped towards 
it, and stooping, recognised Gautran. He was not 
startled. It seemed to be in keeping with what had pre- 
viously transpired, that Gautran should be lying there 
slumbering at his feet. 

He. stood quite still, regarding the sleeping figure of the 
murderer in silence. He had risen to his full height ; one 
hand rested upon the back of a massive oak chair ; his face 
was grave and pale; his head was downwards bent. So 
he stood for many minutes almost motionless. Not the 
slightest agitation was observable in him; he was calmly 
engaged in reflecting upon the position of affairs, as 
though they related not to himself, but to a client in whose 
case he was interested, and he was evolving from them, 
by perfectly natural reasoning, the most extraordinary 
complications and results. In all his experience he had 
never been engaged in a case presenting so many rare 
possibilities, and he was in a certain sense fascinated by 
the powerful use he could make of the threads of the web 
in which he had become so strangely and unexpectedly 
entangled. 

Gautran’s features were not clearly visible to him ; they 
were too much in shadow. He took from his writing- 
table a lamp with a soft strong light, and set it near to the 
sleeping man. It brought the ruffian into full view. His 
unshaven face, his coarse, matted hair, his brutal sensual 
month, his bushy eyebrows, his large ears, his bared neck, 
his soiled and torn clothes, the perspiration in which he 
was bathed, presented a spectacle of human degradation as 
revolting as any the Advocate had ever gazed upon. 

“ By what means/’ he thought, “ did this villain obtain 
information of my movements and residence, and what is 
his motive in coming here? When he accosted me to- 
night he did not know where I lived — of that I am con- 
vinced, for he had no wish to meet me, and believed he was 


264 THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 


threatening another man than myself on the high road. 
That was a chance meeting. Is this, also, a chance en- 
counter? No; there is premeditation in it. Had he 
entered another house he would have laid his hands on 
something valuable and decamped, his purpose being 
served. He would not dare to rob me, but he dares to 
thrust his company upon me. Of all men, I am the man 
he should be most anxious to avoid, for only I know him 
to be guilty. Have I created a monster who is destined 
to be the terror and torture of my life? Is he shrewd 
enough, clever enough, cunning enough, to use his power 
as I should use it were I in his place, and he in mine? 
That is not to be borne, but what is the alternative? I 
could put life into the grotesque oaken features upon 
which my hand is resting, and they might suggest a 
remedy. The branches of the tree within which these faces 
grew in some old forest waved doubtless over many a 
mystery, but this in which I am at present engaged matches 
the deepest of them. Some demon seems to be whispering 
at my elbow. Speak, then; what would you urge me 
to do ? ” 

The Unseen : “ Gautran entered unobserved/’ 

The Advocate : “ That is apparent, or he would not be 
lying here with the hand of Fate above him.” 

The Unseen : “No person saw him — no person is 
aware that he is in your study, at your mercy.” 

The Advocate : “At my mercy ! You could have 
found a better word to express your meaning.” 

The Unseen : “ You know him to be a murderer/’ 

The Advocate : “ True.” 

The Unseen: “He deserves death! You have al- 
ready heard the whisperings of the voice which urged you 
to fulfil the divine law, Blood for blood ! ” 

The Advocate : “ Speak not of what is Divine. 
Tempter, have you not the courage to come straight to the 
point? ” 

The Unseen: “ Kill him where he lies! He will not 
be missed. It is night — black night. Every living being 
in the house, with the exception of yourself, is asleep. 
You have twisted justice from its rightful course. The 
wrong you did you can repair. Kill him where he lies ! ” 


THE ADVOCATE CREATES A MONSTER 26*5 

The Advocate: “ And have the crime of murder upon 
my soul ? ” 

The Unseen : “ It is not murder. Standing as you are 
standing now, knowing what you know, you are justified.” 

The Advocate : “ I will have no juggling. If I kill 
him it is not in the cause of justice. Speak plainly. Why 
should he die at my hands? ” 

The Unseen : “ His death is necessary for your 
safety.” 

The Advocate : “ Ah, that is better. No talk of jus- 
tice now. We come to the coarse selfishness of things, 
which will justify the deadliest crimes. His death is nec- 
essary for my safety! How am I endangered? Say 
that his presence here is a threat. Am I not strong 
enough to avoid the peril? How vile am I that I should 
allow such thoughts to suggest themselves ! Christian, 
my friend, whatever is the terror which has taken posses- 
sion of you, and from which you vainly strive to fly, your 
secret is pure in comparison with mine. If it were pos- 
sible that the secret which oppresses you concerned your 
dearest friend, concerned me, whom perchance it has in 
some hidden way wronged, how could I withhold from 
you pity and forgiveness, knowing how sorely my own 
actions need pity and forgiveness? For the first time in 
my life I am brought face to face with my soul, and I see 
how base it is. Has my life, then, been surrounded by 
dreams, and do I now awake to find how low and abomin- 
able are the inner workings of my nature ? I must arouse 
this monster. He shall hide nothing from me.” 

He spurned Gautran with his foot. It was with no 
gentle touch, and Gautran sprang to his feet, and would 
have thrown himself upon the Advocate had he not sud- 
denly recognised him. 


266 GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 


CHAPTER XV 

GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 

“TT TOW long have I been asleep?” muttered Gau- 

I 1 tran, shaking himself and rubbing his eyes. “ It 

1 JL seems but a minute.” The clock on the mantel 
struck the hour of two. “ I counted twelve when I was 
in the grounds; I have been here two hours. You might 
have let me sleep longer. It is the first I have enjoyed for 
weeks — a sleep without a dream. As I used to sleep be- 
fore ” He shuddered, and did not complete the sen- 

tence. “ Give me something to drink, master.” 

“ You have been helping yourself to my wine,” said the 
Advocate. 

“ You know everything, master. Yes, it was wine I 
drank, as mild as milk. It went down like water. Good 
for gentlemen, perhaps, but not for us. I must have 
something stronger.” He looked anxiously round the 
room, and sighed and smiled ; no appalling vision greeted 
his sight. “ Ah,” he said, “ I am safe here. Give me 
some brandy.” 

“ You will have none, Gautran,” said the Advocate 
sternly. 

“ Ah, master,” implored Gautran, “ think better of it, I 
must have brandy — I must ! ” 

“ Must ! ” echoed the Advocate, with a frown. 

“ Yes, master, must ; -I shall not be able to talk else. My 
throat is parched — you can hear for yourself that it is as 
dry as a raven’s. I must have drink, and it mustn’t be 
milk-wine. I am not quite a fool, master. If that hor- 
rible shadow were never to appear to me again, I would 
show those who have been hard on me a trick or two that 
would astonish them. If you’ve a spark of compassion 
in you, master, give a poor wretch a glass of brandy.” 

The Advocate considered a moment, and then unlocked 
a small cupboard, from which he took a bottle of brandy. 
He filled a glass, and gave it to Gautran. 

“ Here’s confusion to our enemies,” said Gautran, 


GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 2C7 

“Ah, this is fine ! I have never tasted such before. It puts 
life into a man.” 

“ What makes you drink to our enemies, Gautran ? ” 
asked the Advocate. 

“ Why, master, are not my enemies yours, and yours 
mine? We row in the same boat. If they found us out, it 
would be as bad for you as it would be for me. Worse, 
master, worse, for you have much to lose ; I have nothing. 
You see, master, I have been thinking over things since 
we met in the lane yonder.” 

“ You are bold and impudent. What if I were to sum- 
mon my servants and have you marched off to gaol ? ” 

“ What would you accuse me of ? I have not stolen 
anything; you may search me if you like. No, no, master, 
I will take nothing from you. What you give I shall be 
grateful for; but rob you? No — you are mistaken in me. 
I owe you too much already. I am bound to you for life.” 

“ You do not seem afraid of the gaol, Gautran.” 

“ Not when you threaten me with it, master, for you are 
jesting with me. It is not worth your while; I am a poor 
creature to make sport of.” 

“Yet I am dangerously near handing you over to jus- 
tice.” 

“ For what, master, for what? For coming into your 
room, and not finding you there, throwing myself in a cor- 
ner like a dog?” 

“ It is sufficient — and you have stolen my wine. These 
are crimes which the law is ready to punish, especially in 
men with evil reputations.” 

“You are right, I’ve no doubt; you know more about 
the law than I do. I don’t intend to dispute with you, 
master. But when they got hold of me they would ques- 
tion me, and my tongue would be loosened against my 
will. I say again, you are jesting with me. How warm 
and comfortable it is in this grand room, and how miser- 
able outside! Ah, why wasn’t I born rich? It was a 
most unfortunate accident.” 

“ Your tongue would be loosened against your will ! 
What could you say ? ” 

“ What everybody suspects, but could not prove, master, 
thanks to you. They owe me a grudge in the prison yon- 


268 GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 

der — lawyers and judges and gaolers — and nothing would 
please them better than to hear what I could tell them — 
that I killed the girl, and that you knew I killed her. ^ You 
don’t look pleased, master. You drove me to say it.” 

“ You slanderous villain ! ” 

“ I don’t mind what you call me, master. I can bear 
anything from you. I am your slave, and there is nothing 
you could set me to do that I am not ready to perform. I 
mean it, master. Try me — only try me ! Think of some- 
thing fearful, something it would take a bold, desperate 
man to do, and see if I shrink from it. The gaoler was 
right when he said I was a lucky dog to get such an Advo- 
cate as you to defend me. You knew the truth — you knew 
I did the deed — you knew no one else could save me — and 
you wanted to show them how clever you were, and what 
a fool any lawyer was to think he could stand against you. 
And you did it, master, you did it. How mad they must 
be with you ! I wonder how much they would give to cry 
Quits ! And you’ve done even more than that, master. The 
spirit which has been with me night and day, in prison and 
out of prison, lying by me in bed, standing by my side in 
the court — you saw it there, master — dogging me through 
the streets and lanes, hiding behind trees and gliding upon 
me when I thought I had escaped it — it is gone, master, it 
is gone ! It will not come where you are. It is afraid of 
you. I don’t care whether it is a holy or an unholy power 
you possess, I am your slave, and you can do with me as 
you will. But you must not send me to prison again — no, 
you must not do that ! Why, master, simple as I am, and 
ignorant of the law, I feel that you are joking with -me, 
when you threaten to summon your servants to march me 
off to gaol for coming into your house. I should say to 
them, ‘ You are a pack of fools. Don’t you see he is jest- 
ing with you? Here have we been talking together for 
half an hour, and he has given me his best brandy as a 
mark of friendship. There is the bottle — feel the rim of 
it, and you will find it wet. Look at the glass, if you don’t 
believe me. Smell it — smell my breath.’ Why, then they 
would ask you again if you were in earnest, and you would 
have to send them away. Master, I was never taught to 
read or write, and there is very little I know — but I know 


GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 269 


well that there is a time to do a thing and a time not to do 
it, and that unless a thing is done at the proper time, there 
is no use afterwards attempting it. I will tell you some- 
thing, though I dare say I might save myself the trouble, 
for you can read what is in me. If Madeline, when she 
ran from me along the river’s bank, had escaped me, it 
is likely she would be alive at this moment, for the fiend 
that spurred me on to kill her might never again have 
been so 1 strong within me, might never again have had 
such power over me as he had that night. But he was 
too strong for me, and that was the time to do the deed, 
and she had to die. Do you think I don’t pity her? I do, 
when she is not tormenting me. But when she follows me, 
as she has done to-night, when she stands looking at me 
with eyes in which there is fire, but no light, I feel that 
I could kill her over again if I dared, and if I could get a 
good grip of her. Are all spirits silent? Have they no 
voice to speak ? It is terrible, terrible ! I must buy masses 
for her soul, and then, perhaps, she will rest in peace. 
Master, give me another glass of that rare brandy of 
yours. Talking is dry work.” 

“You’ll get no more till you leave me.” 

“ I am to leave you, then ? ” 

“ When I have done with you — when our conversation 
is at an end.” 

“ I must obey you, master. You could crush me if you 
liked.” 

“ I could kill you if I liked,” said the Advocate, in a 
voice so cold and determined that Gautran shuddered. 

“ You could, master — I know it well enough. Not with 
your hands ; I am your match there. Few men can equal 
me in strength. But you would not trust to that ; you are 
too wise. You would scorch and wither me with a light- 
ning touch. I should be a fool to doubt it. If you will 
not give me brandy, give me a biscuit or some bread and 
meat. Since noon I have had nothing to eat but a few 
apples, to which I helped myself. The gaolers robbed me 
of my dinner in the middle of the day, and put before me 
only a slice of dry bread. I would cut off two of my fingers 
to be even with them.” 

In the cupboard which contained the brandy and other 


270 GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 

liquors was a silver basket containing biscuits, which the 
Advocate brought forward and placed before Gautran, 
who ate them greedily and filled his pockets with them. 
During the silence the Advocate’s mind was busy with 
Gautran’s words. Ignorant as the man was, and con- 
fessed himself to be, there was an undisputable logic in the 
position he assumed. Shrink from it as he might, the Ad- 
vocate could not avoid confessing that between this man, 
who was little better than an animal, and himself, who had 
risen so high above his fellows — that in these extremes of 
intellectual degradation and superiority — existed a strange 
and, in its suggestiveness, an awful, equality. And what 
afforded him food for serious reflection, from an abstract 
point of view, was that, though they travelled upon roads 
so widely apart, they both arrived at the same goal. This 
was proved by Gautran’s reasoning upon the Advocate’s 
threat to put him in prison for breaking into the House of 
White Shadows. “ Sound logic,” thought the Advocate, 
“ learnt in a school in which the common laws of nature 
are the teachers. A decided kinship exists between this 
murderer and myself. Am I, then, as low as he, and do the 
best of us, in our pride of winning the crown, indulge in 
self-delusions at which a child might feel ashamed? Or 
is it that, strive as he may, the most earnest' man cannot 
lift himself above the grovelling motives which set in 
motion every action of a human life ? ” 

“ Now, master,” said Gautran, having finished munch- 
ing. 

“ Now, Gautran,” said the Advocate, “ why do you 
come to me ? ” 

“ I belong to you,” replied Gautran. “ You gave me my 
life and my liberty. You had some meaning in it. I don’t 
ask you what it is, for you will tell me only what you 
choose to tell me. I am yours, master, body and soul.” 

“And soul ? ” questioned the Advocate ironically. 

“ So long,” said Gautran, crossing himself, “ as you do 
not ask me to do anything to imperil my salvation.” 

“ Is it not already imperilled ? Murderer ! ” 

“ I have done nothing that I cannot buy off with 
masses. Ask the priests. If I could not get money any 
other way, to save myself I would rob a church.” 


GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 271 

“Admirable ! ” exclaimed the Advocate. “ You interest 
me, Gautran. How did you obtain admission into the 
grounds ? ” 

“ Over the wall at the back. It is a mercy I did not 
break my bones.” 

“And into this room — how did you enter? ” 

“ Through the window.” 

“ Knowing it was my room ? ” 

“ Yes, master.” 

“ How did you gain that knowledge ? ” 

“ I was told — and told, as well, that you lived in this 
house.” 

“ By whom were you told ? ” 

“As I ran from Madeline — she has left me forever, I 
hope — I came upon a man who, for some purpose of his 
own, was lingering on a hill a little distance from here. I 
sought company, and was glad of his. I made up my mind 
to pass my night near something human, and did not in- 
tend to leave him. But when he said that yonder was the 
house in which the great Advocate lived, and when he 
pointed out your study window, I gave him the slip, know- 
ing I could do better than remain with him. That is the 
truth, master.” 

“Are you acquainted with this man ? ” 

“ No, I never saw him before ; I saw but little of him as 
it was, the night was so dark ; but I know voices when I 
hear them. His voice was strange to me.” 

“ How happened it, then, that you conversed about 
me? ” 

“ I can’t remember exactly how it came about. He gave 
me some brandy out of a flask — not such liquor as yours, 
master, but I was thankful for it — and I asked him if he 
had ever been followed by the spirit of a dead woman. He 
questioned me about this woman, asking if she was fair 
and beautiful, whether she had met her death in the Rhone, 
whether her name was Madeline. Yes, he called her up 
before me and I was spellbound. When I came to my 
proper senses he was talking to himself about a great 
Advocate in the house he was staring at, and I said there 
was only one great Advocate — you who set me free — and 
I asked him if you lived in the house. He said yes, and 


272 GAUTRAN AND THE ADVOCATE 

that the lights I saw were the lights in your study win- 
dows. Upon that I left him, suddenly and secretly, and 
made my way here.” 

“ Was the man watching this house ? ” 

“ It had the look of it. He is no friend of yours, that I 
can tell you. When he spoke of you it was with the 
voice of a man who could make you wince if he pleased. 
You have served him some trick, and he wants to be 
revenged, I suppose. But you can take care of yourself, 
master.” 

“ That will do. Leave me and leave this house, and as 
you value your life, enter it no more.” 

“ Then, you will see me elsewhere. Where, master, and 
when ? ” 

“ I will see you in no place and at no time. I under- 
stand the meaning of looks, Gautran, and there is a threat 
in your eyes. Beware ! I have means to punish you. You 
have, escaped the penalty of your crime, but there is no 
, safety for you here. You do not wish to die ; the guilt of 
blood is on your soul, and you are afraid of death. Well 
may you be afraid of it. Such terrors await you in the 
life beyond as you cannot dream of. Live, then, and 
repent; or die, and be eternally lost! Dare to intrude 
yourself upon me, and death will be your portion, and you 
will go straight to your punishment. Here, and at this 
moment only, you have the choice of either fate. Choose, 
and swiftly.” 

The cold, stern, impressive voice, the commanding fig- 
ure, had their effect upon Gautran. He shook with fear; 
he was thoroughly subdued. 

“ If I am not safe here, master, where shall I find 
safety? ” 

“ In a distant part of the country where you are not 
known.” 

“ How am I to get there ? I have no money.” 

“ I will give you sufficient for flight and subsistence. 
Here are five gold pieces. Now, go, and let me never see 
your murderous face again.” 

“ Master,” said Gautran humbly, as he turned the 
money over in his hand and counted it. “ I must have 
more — not for myself, but to pay for masses for the repose 


PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS HOSPITALITY 273 

of Madeline’s soul. Then I may hope for forgiveness — 
then she will leave me in peace ! ” 

The Advocate emptied his purse into Gautran’s open 
palm, saying, “ Let no man see you. Depart as secretly as 
you came.” 

But Gautran lingered still. “ You promised me some 
more brandy, master.” 

The Advocate filled the glass, and Gautran, with fierce 
eagerness, drank the brandy. 

“ You will not give me another glass, master? ” 
a No, murderer. I have spoken my last word to you.” 
Gautran spoke no more, but with head sunk upon his 
breast, left the room and the house. 

“A vulgar expedient,” mused the Advocate, when he 
was alone, “ but the only one likely to prove effective with 
such a monster. It is perhaps best that it has happened. 
This man watching upon the hill is none other than John 
Vanbrugh. I had almost forgotten him. He does not 
come in friendship. Let him watch and wait. I will not 
see him.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS THE HOSPITALITY OF THE HOUSE OF 
WHITE SHADOWS. 

T HE following day Pierre Lamont did not leave his 
bed, and was visited in his room by the Advo- 
cate and Christian Aimer. To the Advocate he 

said : 

“ I trust I shall not incommode you, for I am compelled 
to throw myself upon your hospitality.” 

“ Get well, then,” said the Advocate, “ and enjoy it — 
which you cannot do, thus confined.” 

“ I do not know — I do not know,” said the old lawyer, 
gazing at the Advocate, and wondering how it was pos- 
sible that this profound thinker and observer could be 
blind to the drama which was being acted at his very door, 
“ one can still follow the world. Have you read the papers 
this morning ? ” 


274 PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS HOSPITALITY 

“ No — I have not troubled myself to look at them.” 

“ Here is one that will interest you. What is called the 
freedom of the press is growing into a scandal. Editors 
and critics abuse their charter, and need some wholesome 
check. But you are not likely to be moved by what they 
say.” 

He handed a newspaper to the Advocate, who walked 
to the window and read the editorial comments upon the 
trial and the part he had played in it. 

“ The trial of Gautran is over, and the monster whom all 
believe to be guilty of a foul murder is set free. The vic- 
tim, unavenged, is in her grave, and a heavy responsibility 
lies not only upon the city, but upon the nation. Neither 
for good nor ill can the words we write affect the future of 
Gautran. Released by the law, he is universally con- 
demned. Justice is not satisfied. In all Switzerland there 
is but one man who in his soul believes the degraded 
wretch to be innocent, and that this man should be right 
and all others wrong we refuse to believe. Never in a 
cause so weighty have we felt it our duty to raise our 
voice against a verdict reluctantly wrung from the citizens 
whose lot it was to j udge a human being accused — and we 
insist, righteously accused — of a horrible crime. The ver- 
dict cannot be disturbed. Gautran is free! There is a 
frightful significance in these words — Gautran is free ! 

“ Removed from the feverish excitement of the court in 
which the trial took place, the report of the proceedings 
reads more like a stage drama than an episode of real life. 
All the elements which led to the shameful result are emi- 
nently dramatic, and were, without doubt, planned by 
the great Advocate who defended the accused with an eye 
to dramatic effect. It would scarcely surprise us were the 
climax now reached to be followed by an anti-climax in 
which Gautran’s champion of yesterday would become his 
accuser of to-day. Our courts of justice are becoming 
accustomed to this kind of theatrical display. Consider the 
profound sensation which would be produced by the great 
lawyer coming forward and saying, ‘ Yesterday, after a 
long and exciting struggle, I proved to you that Gautran 
was innocent, and by my efforts he was let loose upon 
society. To-day I propose to prove to you that he is 


PIERRE LAMONT SEEKS HOSPITALITY 275 

guilty, and I ask you to mete out to him his just punish- 
ment.’ A dangerous temptation, indeed, to one who 
studies effect. But there is a safeguard against such a 
course". It would so blacken the fame of any man who 
adopted it, however high that man might stand in the esti- 
mation of his peers and the people, that he could never 
hope to rise from the depths of shame into which his own 
act had plunged him. 

“ Many persons who believe that way will doubtless 
argue that there is something providential in the history of 
this ruthless murder of an unfortunate innocent being. 
She is slain. Not a soul comes forward to claim kinship 
with her. None the less is she a child of God. Human 
reason leads to the arrest and imprisonment of Gautran. 
Providence brings upon the scene a great lawyer, who, 
unsolicited, undertakes the defence of a monster, associa- 
tion with whom is defilement. The wretch is set free, and 
Justice stands appalled at what has been done in the name 
of the law. But this is not the end. Providence may have 
something yet in store which will bring punishment to the 
guilty and unravel this tangled skein. What, then, will 
the great Advocate have to say who deliberately and vol- 
untarily brought about a miscarriage of justice so flagrant 
as to cause every honest heart to thrill with indignation ? ” 

The Advocate did not read any further, but laid the 
paper aside and said : 

“ Men who take part in public matters are open to 
attacks of this kind. There is nothing to complain of.” 

‘‘And yet,” thought Pierre Lamont, when the Advocate 
left him, “there was in his face, as he read the article, an 
expression denoting that he was moved. Well, — well — 
men are but human, even the greatest.” 

Later in the day he was visited by Christian Aimer, to 
whom he repeated his apologies. 

“ I have one of my bad attacks on me. They frequently 
last for days. At such times it is dangerous for me to be 
moved about.” 

“ Then do not be moved about,” said Aimer, with a 
smile. 

But despite this smile, Aimer was inwardly disquieted. 
He had not been aware on the previous night that Pierre 


276 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 


Lamont occupied the next room to his. After the depart- 
ure of the Advocate, Adelaide had not been careful; her 
voice had been frequently raised, and Aimer was anxious 
to ascertain whether it had reached the old lawyer’s ears. 

“ You slept well, I hope,” he said. 

“ Yes, until the early morning, a little after sunrise. I 
am a very deep sleeper for four or five hours. The mo- 
ment I close my eyes sleep claims me, and holds me so 
securely that, were the house on fire, it would be difficult 
to arouse me. But the moment the sunshine peeps into my 
room, my rest is at an end. When I had the use of my 
limbs I was an early riser.” 

Aimer’s mind was relieved. “ Sleeping in a strange 
bed is often not conducive to repose.” 

“ I have slept in so many strange beds.” And Pierre 
Lamont thought as he spoke : “ But never in a stranger 
bed than this.” 

“ You can still find occupation,” said Aimer, pointing to 
the books on table and bed. 

“Ah, books, books, books ! ” said Pierre Lamont. 
“ What would the world do without them ? How did it 
ever do without them ? But I am old, and I am talking to 
a young man.” 

“ My father was a bookworm and a student,” said 
Aimer. “ Were he alive, he would be disappointed that I 
do not tread in his footsteps.” 

Perhaps not. He was a wise man, with a comprehen- 
sive mind. It would not do for us all to be monks.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

FRITZ THE FOOL RELATES A STRANGE DREAM TO PIERRE 
LAMONT 

H ALF-A-DOZEN times in the course of the day 
Pierre Lamont had sent in search of Fritz the 
Fool, and it was not till the afternoon that Fritz 
made his appearance. 

“ You should have come earlier, fool,” said Pierre 
Lamont with a frown. 


277 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 

“ I was better engaged,” said Fritz coolly. “ You fired 
me with those love-verses last night, and I have been 
studying what to say to my peach.” 

“ The pretty Dionetta ! Rehearse, then ; I am dull.” 
“Ah, I have much to tell you. I am thinking of saying 
to the peach, ‘ Dionetta, place your hand in mine, and we 
will both serve Pierre Lamont. He will give us a home ; 
he will pay us liberally ; and when he dies he will not 
leave us unprovided for/ ” 

“And if the peach should laugh in your face ? ” 

“ I would reason with it. I would say, ‘ Look you now ; 
you cannot be always ripe, you cannot be always mellow 
and luscious. Do not waste the precious sunshine of life, 
but give yourself to a clever fool, who cares quite as much 
for your fair face and beautiful skin as he does for the 
diamond baubles in your ears/ ” 

“ Diamond earrings, Fritz ! Are you dreaming? ” 

“ Not at this moment — though I had a dream last night 
after I left you which I may tell you if I don’t repent of it 
before I disclose it. Yes, Master Lamont, diamond ear- 
rings — as I’m a living fool, diamonds of value. See, Mas- 
ter Lamont, I don’t want this peach to be gathered yet. It 
is well placed, it is in favour ; it is making itself in some 
way useful, not to finer, but to richer fruit. Heaven only 
knows what may be rained upon it when the very first 
summer shower brings a diamond finger-ring, and the 
second a pair of diamond earrings. A diamond brooch, 
perhaps ; money for certain, if it will take a fool’s advice. 
And of course it will do that if, seeing that the fool is a 
proper fool, the peach says kindly, ‘ I am yours/ That is 
the way of it, is it not, Master Lamont ? ” 

“ I am waiting to hear more, Fritz,” said Pierre Lamont, 
with a full enjoyment of Fritz’s loquacity. 

“ Behind the summer-house, Master Lamont, lies a 
lovely lake, clear as crystal in parts where it is not covered 
with fairy lilies. I am as good as a pair of eyes to you to 
tell you of these beauties. The water is white and shining 
and at one part there is a mass of willows bending over ; 
then there is a break, clear of the shadow of branch and 
leaf ; then there is another mass of willows. From a dis- 
tance you would think that there was no break in the 


278 FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 

foliage ; you have to go close to it to make the discovery, 
and once you are there you are completely hidden from 
sight. Not more than two hours ago I was passing this 
spot at the back of the willows, when I heard a voice — a 
girl’s voice, Master Lamont — saying quite softly, 4 Oh, 
how lovely ! how beautiful — how beautiful ! ’ It was Dio- 
netta’s voice ; I should know it among a thousand. 
Through the willows I crept with the foot of a cat till I 
came to the break, and there was Dionetta herself, bending 
over the water, and sighing, ‘ Oh, how lovely ! how beau- 
tiful ! ’ She could not see me, for her back was towards 
me, and I took care she did not hear me. She was shaking 
her pretty head over the water, and I shouldn’t deserve to 
be called a fool if I had not felt curious to see what it was 
in the lake that was so lovely and beautiful. Perhaps it 
was her own face she was admiring. Well, she had a per- 
fect right, and I was ready to join in the chorus. I crept up 
to her as still as a mouse, and looked over her shoulder. 
She gave a great scream when she saw my face in the lake, 
and I caught hold of her to prevent her from falling in. 
Then I saw what almost took away my breath. In her 
ears there flashed a pair of diamond earrings, the like of 
which I never in my life beheld in our village. Her face 
got as red as a sunset as I gazed at her. * How you fright- 
ened me, Fritz ! ’ she said. I set the earrings swinging 
with my fingers and said, 4 Where did you get these won- 
derful things from ? ’ She answered me pat. 4 My lady 
gave them to me.’ 4 They are yours, then ? ’ I asked. 
4 Yes, Fritz,’ she said, 4 they are mine, and I came here to 
see how I look in them. They are so grand that I am 
ashamed to put them on unless I am alone. Don’t tell 
anybody, will you, Fritz? If grandmother knew I had 
them, she would take them from me. She would never, 
never let me wear them. Don’t tell anybody.’ Why, of 
course I said I would not, and then I asked why my lady 
gave them to her, and she said it was because my lady 
loved her. So, so! thought I, as I left my peach — I would 
like to have given her just one kiss, but I did not dare to 
tr y— so, so! my lady gives her maid a pair of diamond 
earrings that are as suitable to her as a crown of gold to 
an ass’s head. There is something more than common 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 279 

between lady and maid. What is it, Master Lamont, what 
is it?” 

“A secret, fool, which, if you get your peach to tell, will 
be worth much to you. And as you and I are going to keep 
our own counsel, learn from me that this secret has but one 
of two kernels. Love or jealousy. Set your wits at work, 
Fritz, set your wits at work, and keep your eyes open. I 
may help you to your peach, fool. And now about that 
dream of yours. Were you asleep or awake at the time? ” 

Fritz stepped cautiously to the door, opened it, looked 
along the passage, closed the door, and came close to the 
bedside. 

“Master Lamont,” he said, “what I dreamt is something 
so strange that it will take a great deal of thinking over. 
Do you know why I tell you things ? ” 

“ I might guess wrong, Fritz. Save me the trouble.” 

“ You have never been but one way with me ; you have 
never given me a hard word ; you have never given me a 
blow. When I was a boy — twenty years ago and more, 
Master Lamont — you were the only man who spoke kind 
words to me, who used to pat my head and pity me. For, 
if you remember, Master Lamont, I was nothing but a 
castaway, living on charity, and everybody but you made 
me feel it. Cuffed by this one and that one, kicked, and 
laughed at — but never by you. Even a fool can bear these 
things in mind.” 

“ Well, well, Fritz, go on with your dream. You are 
making me hungry.” 

“ It came nearly two hours after midnight. At that 
time I was in the grounds. All was dark. There was no- 
body about but me, until the Advocate came. Then I 
slipped aside and watched him. He walked up and down, 
like a machine. It was not as if a man was walking, but 
a figure of steel. It was enough to drive me crazy, it was 
so like clockwork. Twice he almost discovered me. He 
looked about him, he searched the grounds, still with the 
same measured step, he called aloud, and asked if anybody 
was near. Then he went into the house and into the study. 
I knew he was there by the shifting of the lights in the 
room. Being alone with the shadows, your love-verses 
came into my mind, and you may believe me, Master 


280 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 


Lamont, I made my way to the window of the room in 
which Dionetta sleeps, and stood there looking up at it. I 
should have been right down ashamed of myself if I hadn’t 
been dreaming. Is it the way of lovers, Master Lamont? 
‘ Faster than bees to flowers they wing their way that is 
how the line runs, is it not? Well, there stood I, a bee, 
dreaming in the dark night, before the window of my 
flower. An invisible flower, unfortunately. But thoughts 
are free; you can’t put chains on them. So there stood 
I, for how many minutes I cannot say, imagining my 
flower. Now, if I had known that her pretty head was 
lying on the pillow, with great diamond earrings in her 
ears — for that is a certainty — I might not perhaps have 
been able to tear myself away. Luckily for my dream, 
that knowledge had still to come to me, so I wandered off, 
and found myself once more staring at the lights in the 
Advocate’s study windows. Now, what made me step quite 
close to them, and put my eye to a pane which the cur- 
tains did not quite cover? I could see clear into the room. 
Imagine my surprise, Master Lamont, when I discovered 
that the Advocate was not alone ! Master Lamont, you 
know every man in the village, but I would give you a 
thousand guesses, and you would not hit upon the name o-f 
the Advocate’s friend. From where I stood I could not 
hear a word that was said, but I saw everything. I saw the 
Advocate go to a cupboard, and give this man liquor ; he 
poured it out for him himself. Then they talked — then the 
Advocate brought forward a silver basket of biscuits, and 
the man ate some, and stuffed some into his pockets. They 
were on the very best of terms with each other. The 
Advocate gave his friend some money— pieces of gold, 
Master Lamont; I saw them glitter. The man counted 
them, and by his action, asked for more; and more was 
given; the Advocate emptied his purse into the man’s 
hand. Then, after further conversation, the man turned 
to leave the room. It was time for me to scuttle from my 
peep-hole. Presently the man was in the grounds step- 
ping almost as softly as I stepped after him. For I was 
not going to lose him, Master Lamont ; my curiosity was 
whetted to that degree that it would have taken a great 
deal to prevent me from following this friend of the Advo- 


281 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 

cate’s. ‘ How will he get out ? ’ thought I ; * the gates are 
locked; he will hardly venture to scale them.’ Two or 
three times he stopped, and looked behind him ; he did not 
see me. He arrived at the wall which stretches at the 
back; he climbed the wall; so did I, in another and an 
easier part ; he dropped down with a thud and a groan ; I 
let myself to the ground without disturbing a leaf. Pres- 
ently he picked himself up and walked off, with more haste 
than before. I followed him. He stopped ; I stopped ; he 
walked on again, and so did I. Again he stopped and cried 
aloud : * I hear you follow me ! Is not one killing enough 
for you ? ’ And then he gave a scream so awful that the 
hair rose on my head. ‘ She is here ! ’ he screamed ; ‘ she is 
* here, and is driving me to madness ! ’ With that he took 
to his heels and tore through field and forest really like 
a madman. I could not keep up with him, and after 
an hour’s running I completely lost sight of him. There 
was nothing for me to do but to get back to the villa. I 
returned the way I came — I had plenty to think about on 
the road — and I was once more before the windows of the 
Advocate’s study. The lights were still there. The Advo- 
cate, I believe, can live without sleep. I peeped through 
the window, and there he was, sitting at his table reading, 
with an expression of power in his face which might well 
make any man tremble who dared to oppose him. That is 
the end of my dream, Master Lamont.” 

“But the man, Fritz, the man!” exclaimed Pierre 
Lamont. “ I am still in ignorance as to who this strange, 
nocturnal visitor can be.” 

“ There lies the pith of my dream. If I were to tell you 
that this man who makes his way secretly into the grounds 
in the darkness of the night — who is closeted with the 
Advocate for an hour at least — who is treated to wine and 
cake — who is presented with money, and grumblingly 
asks for more, and gets it — if I were to tell you that this 
man is Gautran, who was tried for the murder of 
Madeline, the flower-girl, and who was set free by the 
Advocate — what would you say, Master Lamont ? ” 

“ I should say,” replied Pierre Lamont with some diffi- 
culty controlling his excitement, “ that you were mad, fool 
Fritz.” 


282 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 


“ Nevertheless,” said Fritz with great composure, “ it 
is so. I have related my dream as it occurred. The man 
was Gautran and no other. Can you explain that to me in 
one word ? ” 

“ No,” said Pierre Lamont, gazing sharply at Fritz. 
“ You are not fooling me, Fritz? ” 

“ If it were my last word it would make no difference. 
I have told you the truth.” 

“ You know Gautran’s face well ? ” 

“ I was in the court every day of the trial, and there is 
no chance of my being mistaken. See here, Master 
Lamont. I can do many things that would surprise 
people. I can draw faces. Give me a pencil and some 
paper.” 

With a few rapid strokes he produced the very image of 
Pierre Lamont, sitting up in bed, with thin, cadaverous 
face, with high forehead and large nose; even the glitter 
of the old lawyer’s eyes was depicted. Pierre Lamont 
examined the portrait with admiration. 

“I am proud of you, Fritz,” he said; “you have the 
true artist’s touch.” 

Fritz was busy with the pencil again. “ Who may this 
be ? ” he asked, holding another sketch before Pierre 
Lamont. 

“ The Advocate. To the life, Fritz, to the life.” 

“ This is also to the life,” said Fritz, producing a third 
portrait. “ This is Gautran. It is all I can draw, Master 
Lamont — human faces; I could do it when I was a boy. 
There is murder in Gautran’s face; there was murder in 
the words I heard him speak as I followed him : ‘ Is not 
one killing enough for you ? ’ There is only one meaning 
to such words. I leave you to puzzle it all out, Master 
Lamont. You have a wise head; I am a fool. Mother 
Denise may be right, after all, when she said — not know- 
ing I was within hearing — that it was an evil day when my 
lady, the Advocate’s wife, set foot in the grounds of the 
House of White Shadows. But it is no business of mine; 
only I must look after my peach, or it may suddenly be 
spirited away on a broomstick. Unholy work, Master 
Lamont, unholy work! What do you say to letting 
Father Capel into the mystery ? ” 


FRITZ RELATES A DREAM 


283 


“ Not for worlds ! ” cried Pierre Lamont. “ Priests in 
such matters are the rarest bunglers. No — the secret is 
ours, yours and mine; you shall be well paid for your 
share in it. Without my permission you will not speak of 
it — do you hear me, Fritz? ” 

“ I hear you, and will obey you.” 

“ Good lad ! Ah, what would I give if I had the use of 
my limbs ! But you shall be my limbs and my eyes — my 
second self. Help me to dress, Fritz — quick, quick ! ” 

“ Master Lamont,” said Fritz with a sly laugh, “ be 
careful of your precious self. You are ill, you know, very, 
very ill ! You must keep your bed. I cannot run the risk 
of losing so good a master.” 

“ I have a dozen years of life in me yet, fool. This 
dried-up old skin, these withered limbs, this lack of fat, 
are my protection. If I were a stout, fine man I might go 
off at any moment. As it is, I may live to a hundred — 
old enough to see your grandchildren, Fritz. But yes, yes, 
yes — I am indeed very ill and weak! Let everybody 
know it — so weak and ill that it is not possible for me to 
leave this hospitable house for many, many days. The 
medicine I require is the fresh air of the gardens. With 
my own eyes I must see what I can of the comedy that is 
being played under our very noses. I, also, had dreams 
last night, Fritz, rare dreams ! Ah — what a comedy, 
what a comedy! But there are tragic veins in it, fool, 
which make it all the more human.” 


284 


ADELAIDE AND LAMONT 


: BOOK V.—THE DOOM OF GAUTRAN,. 


CHAPTER I 

ADELAIDE STRIVES TO PROPITIATE PIERRE LAMONT 

T HE following night was even darker than the 
preceding one had been. In the afternoon por- 
tents of a coming storm were apparent in the sky. 
Low mutterings of thunder in the distance travelled faintly 
to the ears of the occupants of the House of White Shad- 
ows. The Advocate’s wife shuddered as she heard the 
sounds. 

“ There are only two things in the world I am afraid 
of,” she said to Pierre Lamont, “ and those are thunder 
and lightning. When I was a little child a dreadful thing 
occurred to me. I was playing in a garden when a storm 
came on. I was all alone, and it was some distance to the 
house. The storm broke so suddenly that I had not time 
to reach shelter without getting myself drenched. I dare 
say, though, I should have run through it had I not been 
frightened by the flashes of lightning that seemed to want 
to cut me in two. I flew behind a tree, and stood there 
trembling. Every time a flash came I shut my eyes tight 
and screamed. But the storm did not allow my cries to be 
heard. You can imagine the state I was in. It would not 
have mattered, except for the wetting, had I kept my eyes 
closed, but like a little fool, I opened them once, and just 
at that moment a flash seemed to strike the tree behind 
which I stood. I can almost hear the shriek I gave, as I 
fell and fainted dead away. There, lying on the wet grass, 
I was found. A dreadful looking object I must have been ! 
They carried me into the house, and when I was conscious 
of what was passing around me, I asked why they did 


ADELAIDE AND LAMONT 


285 


not light the gas. The fact is I was quite blind, and re- 
mained so for several days. Was it not shocking? I 
shall never, never forget my fright. Can you imagine 
anything more dreadful than being struck blind? To be 
born blind cannot be half as bad, for one does not know 
what one loses — never having seen the flowers, and the 
fields, and the beautiful skies. But to enjoy them, and 
then to lose them ! It is altogether too horrible to 
think of.” 

She was very gracious to the old lawyer during the 
afternoon. 

“ Do you know,” she said, “ I can’t quite make up my 
mind whether to be fond or frightened of you.” 

“ Be fond of me,” said Pierre Lamont, with a queer 
look. 

“ I shall see how you behave. I am afraid you 
are very clever. I don’t like clever people, they are 
so suspicious, pretending to know everything al- 
ways.” 

“ I am very simple,” said Pierre Lamont, laughing in- 
wardly. He knew that she wanted to propitiate him; 
“ and beauty can lead me by a silken thread.” 

“ Is that another of your compliments ? I declare, you 
speak as if you were a young man.” 

She did, indeed, desire to win Pierre Lamont entirely 
to her, and she would have endured much to make him 
her friend instead of her enemy. Christian Aimer had 
told her that the old lawyer had slept in the next room to 
his, and she had set herself the task of sounding the old 
fellow to ascertain whether his suspicions were aroused, 
and whether she had anything to fear from him. She 
could not heip saying to herself what a fool Mother De- 
nise — who looked after the household arrangements — was 
to put him so close to Christian. 

“ I do believe,” thought Adelaide, “ that she did it to 
spite me.” 

Her mind, however, was quite at ease after chatting 
with the old lawyer. 

“ I am so glad we are friends,” she said to him ; “ it is 
altogether so much nicer.” 

Pierre Lamont looked reproachfully at her, and asked 


286 GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH 

how she could ever have supposed he was anything but 
her most devoted admirer. 

“ Lawyers are so fond of mischief,” she replied, “ that 
if it does not come to them ready-made they manufacture 
it for themselves.” 

“ I am no longer a lawyer,” he said ; “ if I were twenty 
years younger I should call myself a lover.” 

“If you were twenty years younger,” she rejoined 
gaily, “ I should not sit and listen to your nonsense.” 

Being called from his side she turned and gave him an 
arch look. 

“ All that only makes the case stronger, my lady,” he 
said inwardly. “ You cannot deceive me with your 
wiles.” 


CHAPTER II 

GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH 

D URING the chief part of the day Gautran con- 
cealed himself in the woods. Twice had he ven- 
tured to present himself to his fellow-creatures. 
He was hungry, and in sore need of food, and he went to 
a wayside inn, and called for cold meat and bread and 
brandy. 

“ Can you pay for it ? ” asked the innkeeper suspiciously. 
Gautran threw down a gold piece. The innkeeper took 
it, bit it, turned it over and over, rang it on the wooden 
table, and then set the food before Gautran. 

The murderer ate ravenously ; it was the first sufficient 
meal he had eaten for days. The innkeeper gave him his 
change, and he ordered more meat and brandy, and paid 
for them. While he was disposing of this, two men came 
up, eyed him, and passed into the inn ; Gautran was eat- 
ing at a little table in the open air. 

Presently the innkeeper came out and looked at him; 
then the innkeeper’s wife did the same; then other men 
and women came and cast wrathful glances upon him. 

At first he was not conscious that he was being thus 
observed, he was so ravenously engaged ; but his hunger 


GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH 287 

being appeased, he raised his head, and saw seven or eight 
persons standing at a little distance from him, and all with 
their eyes fixed upon his face. 

“ What are you staring at? ” he cried. “ Did you never 
see a hungry man eat before ? ” 

They did not answer him, but stood whispering among 
themselves. 

The idea occurred to Gautran to take away with him a 
supply of food, and he called to the innkeeper to bring it 
to him. Instead of doing so, the innkeeper removed the 
plates and glasses in which the meal had been served. 
Having done this, he joined the group, and stood apart 
from Gautran, without addressing a word to him. 

“ Do you hear me ? ” shouted Gautran. “ Are you deaf 
and dumb ? ” 

“ Neither deaf nor dumb,” replied the innkeeper; “ we 
hear you plain enough.” 

“ Bring me the bread and meat, then,” he said. 

“ Not another morsel,” said the innkeeper. “ Be off 
with you.” 

“ When I get the food.” 

“ You will get none here — nor would you have had bite 
or sup if I had known.” 

“ Known what ? ” demanded Gautran fiercely. “ Is not 
my money as good as another man’s ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because there is blood upon it.” 

If this did not convince him that his name was known 
and execrated, what next transpired would have enlight- 
ened him. The innkeeper’s wife came out with a glass 
and two plates in her hands. 

“ Are these the things,” she asked of her husband, “ the 
monster has been eating out of ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the innkeeper. 

She dashed them to the ground and shivered them to 
pieces, and the onlookers applauded the act. 

“ Why do you do that, Mistress? ” cried Gautran. 

“ So that honest men shall not be poisoned,” was the 
answer, “ by eating out of a murderer’s dish or putting 
their lips to a murderer’s glass.” 


288 GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH 

And the onlookers again applauded her, and kicked 
away the pieces. 

Gautran glared at the men and women, and asked : 

“ Who do you take me for ? ” 

“ For Gautran. There is but one such monster. If 
you do not know your own face, look upon it there.” 

She pointed to the window, and there he beheld his own 
portrait, cut out of an illustrated newspaper, and beneath 
it his name — “ Gautran,” to which had been added, in 
writing, the words, “ The .Murderer of Madeline, the 
Flower-Girl.” 

He could not read the inscription, but he correctly 
divined its nature. The moment before he saw his por- 
trait, it had entered his mind to deny himself ; he recog- 
nised now how futile the attempt would be. 

“ What if I am Gautran ? ” he exclaimed. “ Do you 
think the law would set me free if I was guilty ? ” 

To which the innkeeper’s wife replied : 

“ You have escaped by a quibble. You are a murderer, 
and you know yourself to be one.” 

“ Mistress,” he said, “ if I had you alone I would make 
you smart.” 

“ How does that sound, men ? ” cried the innkeeper’s 
wife with excited gestures. “ Is it the speech of an inno- 
cent man? He would like to get me alone. Yes, he got 
one poor girl alone, and we know what became of her. 
The coward ! the murderer ! Hunt him away, neighbours. 
It is a disgrace to look upon him.” 

They advanced towards Gautran threateningly, and he 
drew his knife and snapped it open. 

“ Who will be the first? ” he asked savagely, and seeing 
that they held together, he retreated backwards, with his 
face to them, until a turn in the road hid them from his 
sight. Then he fled into the woods, and with wild cries 
slashed the trees with his knife, which he had sharpened 
in the early morning. 

On the second occasion he presented himself at a cot- 
tage door, with the intention of begging or buying some 
food. He knocked at the door, and not receiving an an- 
swer, lifted the latch. In the room were two children — 
a baby in a cradle, and a five-year-old boy sitting on the 


GAUTRAN SEEKS JOHN VANBRUGH 289 

floor, playing with a little wooden soldier. Looking up, 
and seeing the features of the ruffian, the boy scrambled 
to his feet, and rushing past Gautran, ran screaming down 
the road. Enraged almost to madness, Gautran ran after 
the child, and catching him, tossed him in the air, 
shouting : 

“ What ! you, too, brat ? This for your pains ! ” 

And standing over the child, was about to stamp upon 
him, when he found himself seized by the throat. It was 
the father, who, hearing the child’s screams, came up just 
in time to save him. Then ensued a desperate struggle, 
and Gautran, despite his boast to the Advocate, found that 
he had met more than his match. He was beaten to the 
ground, lifted, and thrown into the air, as he had thrown 
the child. He rose, bruised and bleeding, and was slink- 
ing off, when the man cried : 

“ Holy Mother! it is the murderer, Gautran! ” 

Some labourers who were coming across the fields, were 
attracted by the scuffle, and the father called out to 
them : 

“ Here is Gautran the murderer, and he has tried to 
murder my child ! ” 

This was enough for them. They were armed with 
reaping-hooks, and they raced towards Gautran with loud 
threats. They chased him for full a mile, but he was 
fleeter of foot than they, and despair gave him strength. 
He escaped them, and sank, panting, to the ground. 

The Advocate had spoken truly. There was no safety 
for him. He was known for miles round, and the people 
were eager for vengeance. He would hide in the woods 
for the rest of the day. There was but one means of 
escape for him. He must seek some distant spot, where 
he and his crime were unknown. But to get there he 
would be compelled to pass through villages in which he 
would be recognised. It was necessary that he should 
disguise himself. In what way could this be done? He 
pondered upon it for hours. In the afternoon he heard 
the muttering of the thunder in the distant mountains. 

“ There’s a storm coming,” he said, and he raised his 
burning face to meet the welcome rain. But' only a few 
heavy drops fell, and the wind moaned through the woods 


290 


A PLAN OF ESCAPE 


as if in pain. Night stole upon him swiftly, and wrapt 
him in horrible darkness. He bit his lips, he clenched his 
hands, his body shook with fear. Solitude was worse 
than death to him. He tried to sleep; in vain. Terrible 
images crowded upon him. Company he must have, at all 
hazards. Suddenly he thought of John Vanbrugh, the 
man he had met the night before on the hill not far from 
the Advocate’s house. This man had not avoided him. 
He would seek him again, and, if he found him, would 
pass the night with him. So resolving, he walked with 
feverish steps towards the hill on which John Vanbrugh 
was keeping watch. 


CHAPTER III 

GAUTRAN RESOLVES ON A PLAN OF ESCAPE 

T HE distance was longer than Gautran had calcu- 
lated, and he did not shorten it by the devious 
tracks he took in his anxiety to avoid meeting with 
his enemies. The rainstorm still kept off, but, in spite of 
the occasional flashes of lightning, the darkness seemed 
to grow thicker and thicker, and he frequently missed his 
way. He kept on doggedly, however, and although the 
shadow of his crime waited upon his steps, and made itself 
felt in the sighing and moaning of the wind, in the bend- 
ing of every branch, and in the fluttering of every 
leaf, the craving for human companionship in which 
there was something of sympathy, and from which 
he would not be hunted like a dog, imbued him with 
courage to fight these terrors. Often, indeed, did he 
pause and threaten with fearful words the spectre of the 
girl he had murdered; and sometimes he implored her 
to leave him, and told her he was going to pay for masses 
for the repose of her soul. Occasionally he was com- 
pelled to take the high road, and then he was grateful for 
the darkness, for it prevented his face from being seen. 
At those times he slunk close to the hedges, as though 
dreading that the slightest contact with a human being 
would lead to discovery. Terrible as the night was to 


291 


A PLAN OF ESCAPE 

him, he feared the approach of day, when it would be 
more difficult to conceal himself from his pursuers. He 
knew that his life was not safe while he remained in this 
fatal neighbourhood. He must escape, and in disguise, 
before he was many hours older. How was this to be ac- 
complished? Once, in the roadway, he followed with 
stealthy steps two men who were conversing. He would 
have avoided them, as he had avoided others, had it not 
been that he heard his name mentioned, and was morbidly 
curious to hear what they were saying about him. 

Said one : “ I have not set eyes upon this man-monster, 
but I shall know him if I meet him in the light.” 

To which the other replied: “How will you manage 
that, if you have never seen his face ? ” 

* “You ask a foolish question. Have not full descrip- 
tions of the murderer been put about everywhere? His 
features, the colour of his hair, his clothes, from his cap 
to his boots — all is known. His face he might disguise 
by a slash of his knife, if he has courage enough for it, or 
he might stain it — and in that way, too, he might change 
the colour of his hair. But his clothes would remain. The 
shirt he wears is one in a thousand, and there's no mis- 
taking it. It is blue, with broad yellow bands, which 
encircle his villainous body like rings. Let him get 
another shirt if he can. The country is aroused for 
twenty miles round, and men are resolved to take justice 
into their own hands. The law has allowed him to slip 
through its fingers ; he shall not slip through ours. 
Why, he said to a woman this morning that he would 
know how to serve her if he had her alone, and not long 
afterwards he tried to murder a child ! Shall such a mon- 
ster be allowed to remain at liberty to strike women down 
and murder the helpless ? No — we don’t intend to let him 
escape. Men are on the watch for him everywhere, and 
when he is caught he will be beaten to death, or hung upon- 
the nearest tree. There is another end for him, if he 
chooses to take it. He can hide in the woods and starve, 
and when his body is found, we’ll drive a stake through it. 
Take my word for it, Gautran, the murderer, has not long 
to live.” 

Gautran shook with fear and rage. 


292 


A PLAN OF ESCAPE 


“ I could spring upon them with my knife/’ he thought, 
“ but they are two to one.” 

And then, when the men were out of hearing, he shook 
his fist at them, and muttered : 

“ Curse you ! I will cheat you yet ! ” 

But how? The description given of his shirt was a 
faithful one; the broad yellow bands were there, and he 
remembered that, two days before the end of his trial, the 
gaolers had taken it from his cell in the night, and 
returned it to him in the morning, washed, with the yellow 
colour brighter than it had been for months. He knew now 
that this had been done out of malice, in case he should be 
acquitted, so that he might be the more readily recognised 
and shunned, or the more easily tracked and caught if he 
was again wanted. There loomed upon him a way to foil 
those who had vowed to kill him. The man he was seek- 
ing had spoken in a reckless manner ; he had complained 
of the world, and was doubtless in want of money. He 
had gold which the Advocate had given him; he would 
offer to buy the man’s clothes, and would give him his 
own, and one, two, or even three gold pieces in exchange: 
An easy thing to accomplish. But if the man would not 
consent to the bargain ! He smiled savagely, and felt the 
edge of his knife. He was thoroughly desperate. He 
would sacrifice a thousand lives to save his own. 

Out of this murderous alternative — and out of the 
words uttered by the man he had overheard, “ His face 
he might disguise by a slash of his knife if he has 
courage for it ” — grew ideas which, as he plodded on 
gradually arranged themselves into a scheme which would 
ensure him an almost sure escape from those who had 
leagued themselves against him. Its entire success de- 
pended upon certain physical attributes in John Vanbrugh 
— but he would risk it even if these were not as he wished 
them to be. The plan was horrible in its design, and 
needed strength and cunning. He had both, and would 
use them without mercy, to ensure his safety. John Van- 
brugh, with whose name he was not acquainted, was prob- 
ably a stranger in the locality; something in Vanbrugh’s 
speech caused him to suspect this. He would assure him- 
self first of the fact, and then the rest was easy. Vanbrugh 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 293 

was about his own height and build ; he had stood by his 
side and knew this to be so. Gautran should die this night 
in the person of another man, and should be found in the 
morning, murdered, with features so battered as to defy 
recognition. But he would be attired in Gautran’s clothes, 
and would by those means be instantly identified. Then 
he, the true Gautran, would be forever safe. In John 
Vanbrugh’s garments he could make his way to a distant 
part of the country, and take another name. No one would 
suspect him, for Gautran would be dead ; and he would 
buy masses for the repose of Madeline’s soul, and so purge 
himself of blood-guiltiness. As to this second contem- 
plated crime he gave it no thought, except that it was nec- 
essary, and must be done. 


CHAPTER IV 
heaven’s judgment 

W ITHIN half an hour of midnight he arrived at 
the hill, and saw the shadow of a man who was 
leaning against a tree. Gautran had been walk- 
ing for nearly three hours, and during the whole time the 
storm of thunder and lightning had continued at intervals, 
now retreating, now advancing ; but its full force had been 
spent may miles away, and it did not seem likely to ap- 
proach much nearer to the House of White Shadows. 

“ The man is there,” muttered Gautran, “ with his face 
still towards the Advocate’s window. What is his pur- 
pose ? ” 

He was curious about that, too, and thought he would 
endeavour to ferret it out. It might be useful to him in 
the future, for it concerned the Advocate. There was 
plenty of time before him to accomplish his own murder- 
ous design. 

John Vanbrugh heard Gautran’s footsteps. 

“ Who comes this way? ” he cried. 

“ A friend,” replied Gautran. 

“ That is easily said,” cried Vanbrugh. “ I am not in a 
trustful mood. Hold off a bit, or I may do you mischief.” 


294 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 


“ Do you not know me? ” asked Gautran, approaching 
closer, and measuring himself with the dark form of Van- 
brugh. They were of exactly the same height. 

“ What, Gautran ! ” exclaimed Vanbrugh in a gay tone. 

“ Yes, Gautran.” 

“ Welcome, friend, welcome,” said Vanbrugh, with a 
laugh. “ Give me your hand. Veritable flesh and blood. 
You have a powerful grip, Gautran. I thought we should 
meet again. What caused you to make yourself scarce so 
suddenly last night? You vanished like a cloud.” 

“ I had business to do. Have you got any more of that 
brandy about you ? ” 

“ I am not sure whether you deserve it. After emptying 
my flask, you may make off again. A poor return for hos- 
pitality, my friend.” 

“ I promise to remain with you — it is what I came for — 
if you give me brandy.” 

“ I take your word,” said Vanbrugh, producing a flask. 
“ Drink, but not too greedily.” 

Gautran took a long draught and returned the flask, 
saying, “ You have no food, I suppose? ” 

“ Why, yes, I have. Warned by previous experiences I 
supplied myself liberally for this night’s watch. I’ll not 
refuse you, though I spent my last franc on it.” 

“Ah,” said Gautran, with some eagerness, for an ami- 
cable exchange of clothing would render the more villain- 
ous part of his task easier of accomplishment, “ you are 
poor, then ? ” 

“ Poor? Yes, but not for long, Gautran. The days of 
full purses are coming. Here is the food. Eat, rogue, eat. 
It is honest bread and meat, bought and paid for ; but none 
the sweeter for that. We know which fruit is the sweet- 
est. So you had business to do when you took French 
leave of me! How runs the matter? I had just pointed 
out the Advocate’s window to you — your own special Ad- 
vocate, my friend, to whom you have so much reason to be 
grateful — when you disappeared like an arrow from a 
bow. What follows then ? That, leaving me so abruptly, 
your business was important, and that it concerned the Ad- 
vocate. Right or wrong, rogue ? ” 

“ Right,” replied Gautran, as he devoured the food. 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 295 

" Come, that’s candid of you, and spoken like a friend. 
Yon did not know, before I informed you, that he lived in 
the villa yonder? ” 

“ I did not.” 

“ I begin to have hopes of you. And learning it from 
me, you made up your mind on the spur of the moment — 
your business being so important — to pay him a friendly 
visit, despite the strangeness of the hour for a familiar 
call?” 

“ You’ve hit it,” said Gautran. 

John Vanbrugh pondered a while. These direct answers, 
given without hesitation, puzzled him. He had expected 
to meet with prevarication, and he was receiving, instead, 
straightforward confidence. 

“ You are not afraid,” he said, “to speak the truth to 
me, Gautran ? ” 

“ I am not.” 

“ But I am a stranger to you.” 

“ That’s true.” 

“Why, then, do you confide in me?” 

It was Gautran’s turn now to pause, but he soon replied, 
with a sinister look which John Vanbrugh, in the dark- 
ness, could not see : 

“ Because, after what passes between us this night, I 
am sure you will not betray me.” 

“ Good,” said Vanbrugh; “ then it is plain you sought 
me deliberately, because you think I can in some way serve 
you.” 

“ Yes, because you can in some way serve me — that is 
why I am here.” 

“ Then you intend to hide nothing from me ? ” 

“ Nothing — for the reason I have given.” 

A flash of lightning seemed to strike the spot on which 
he and Gautran were conversing, and he waited for the 
thunder. It came — long, deep, and threatening. 

“ There is a terrible storm somewhere,” he said. 

“ It does not matter,” rejoined Gautran, with a shudder, 
“ so long as a man is not alone. Don’t mind my coming so 
close. I have walked many a mile to find you. I have not 
a friend in the world but you.” 

“ Not even the Advocate? ” 


296 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 


“ Not even him. He will see me no more.” 

“ He told you that last night ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But how did you get to him, Gautran? You did not 
enter by the gates.” 

“ No; I dropped over the wall at the back. Tell me. It 
is but fair; I answer you honestly enough. What are 
you watching his house for? A man does not do as 
you are doing, on such black nights as this, for idle 
pastime.” 

“ No, indeed, Gautran ! I also have business with him. 
And strangely enough, you, whom I met in the flesh for 
the first time within these last twenty-four hours, are indi- 
rectly concerned in it.” 

“Am I? Strange enough, as you say. But it will not 
matter after to-night.” 

Some hidden meaning in Gautran’s tone struck warn- 
ingly upon John Vanbrugh, and caused him to bestow a 
clearer observance upon Gautran’s movements from this 
moment. 

“ There is a thing I wish to know, Gautran,” he said. 
“ Between vagabonds like ourselves there is no need for 
concealment. It is a delicate question, but you have been 
so frank with me that I will venture to ask it. Besides, 
there are no witnesses, and you will not, therefore, incrim- 
inate yourself. This girl, Madeline, whose spirit follows 
you ” 

Vanbrugh hesitated. The question he was about to ask 
trembled on his lips, and he scarcely knew how to give it 
shape in words that would not provoke an outbreak on the 
part of Gautran. He had no desire to come into open col- 
lision with this ruffian, of whose designs upon himself he 
was inwardly warned. Gautran, with brutal recklessness, 
assisted him. 

“ You want to know if I killed her? ” 

“ Why, yes — though you put it roughly.” 

“ What matter? Well, then, she died at my hands.” 

John Vanbrugh recoiled from the murderer in horror, 
and in a suppressed tone asked : 

“ When the Advocate defended you, did he know you 
were guilty ? ” 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 297 

“Aye. We kept the secret to ourselves. It was cleverly 
worked, was it not ? ” 

“And last night,” continued John Vanbrugh, “ he re- 
ceived you in his study ? ” 

“Aye — and gave me liquor, and food, and money. 
Listen to it.” He rattled the gold pieces in the palms of 
his hands. “ Look you. I have answered questions 
enough. I answer no more for a while. It is my turn 
now.” 

“ Proceed, Gautran,” said Vanbrugh ; “ I may satisfy 
you or not, according to my whim.” 

“ You’ll satisfy me, or I’ll know the reason why. There 
is no harm in what I am going to say. You are a stranger 
in these parts — there is no offence in that, is there? ” 

“ None. Yes, I am a stranger in these parts. Heavens ! 
what a flash ! The storm is coming nearer.” 

“All the better. You will hardly believe that I have been 
bothering myself about the colour of your hair. I hate red- 
haired men. Yours, now. Is there any offence in asking 
the colour of it ? ” 

“ None. My hair is black.” 

Gautran’s eyes glittered and a flash of lightning illumi- 
nated his face, and revealed to Vanbrugh the savage and 
ruthless look which shone there. 

“And your height and build, about the same as mine,” 
said Gautran. “ Let us strike a bargain. I have gold — 
you have none. I have taken a fancy to your clothes ; I 
will buy them of you. Two gold pieces in exchange for 
them, and mine thrown in.” 

“ The clothes of a murderer,” said Vanbrugh, slowly 
retreating as Gautran advanced upon him. “ Thank you 
for nothing. Not for two hundred gold pieces, poor as I 
am. Keep off. Do not come so near to me.” 

“Why not? You are no better than I. Three gold 
pieces ! That should content you.” 

“ You have my answer, Gautran. Leave me, I have had 
enough of you.” 

“ You will have had more than enough before I have 
done with you,” said Gautran, and Vanbrugh was satisfied 
now, from the man’s brutal tones, that it was a deadly foe 
who stood within a few inches of him, “ if you do not do 


298 


HEAVEN’S JUDGMENT 


as I bid you. Say, done and done; you had better. By 
fair means or foul I mean to have what I want.” 

“ Not by fair means, you murderous villain. Be warned. 
I am on my guard.” 

“ If you will have it, then ! ” cried Gautran, and with a 
savage shout he threw himself upon Vanbrugh. 

So sudden and fierce was the attack that Vanbrugh 
could not escape from it; but although he was no match 
for Gautran in strength, he had had, in former years, 
some experience in wrestling which came to his aid now in 
this terrible crisis. The struggle that ensued was pro- 
longed and deadly, and while the men were locked in each 
other’s arms, the storm broke immediately over their 
heads. The thunder pealed above them, the lightning 
played about their forms. 

“ You villain ! ” gasped Vanbrugh, as he felt himself 
growing weaker. “ Have you been paid by the Advocate 
to do this deed ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Gautran, between his clenched teeth; 
“ he is the fiend’s agent, and I am his ! He bade me kill 
you. Your last moment has come ! ” 

“ Not yet,” cried Vanbrugh, and by a supreme and de- 
spairing effort he threw Gautran clear from him, and 
stood again on the defensive. 

Simultaneously with the movement a flash of forked 
lightning struck the tree against which Vanbrugh had 
been leaning when Gautran first accosted him, and cleft it 
in twain ; and as Gautran was about to spring forward, a 
huge mass of timber fell upon him with fatal force, and 
bore him to the earth — where he lay imprisoned, crushed 
and bleeding to death. 


GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 


299 


CHAPTER V 

FATHER CAPEL DISCOVERS GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 

F ATHER CAPEL was wending his way slowly over 
the hill from the bedside of the sick woman whom 
he had attended for two nights in succession. On 
the first night she was in a state of delirium, and Father 
Capel could not arouse her to a consciousness of sur- 
rounding things. In her delirium she had repeatedly 
uttered a name which had powerfully interested him, 
“ Madeline ! Madeline ! my Madeline,” she moaned again 
and again. “ Is it possible,” thought the priest, “ that the 
girl whose name she utters with agonised affection is the 
poor child who was so ruthlessly murdered ? ” On this, 
the second night, the woman whose last minutes on earth 
were approaching, was conscious, and she made certain 
disclosures to Father Capel which, veiled as they were, 
had grievously disturbed his usually serene mood. She 
had, also, given him a mission to perform which did not 
tend to compose his mind. He had promised faithfully to 
obey her, and they were to meet again within a few hours. 
To his earnest request that she would pray with him, she 
had impatiently answered : 

“ There will be time enough after I have seen the man 
you have promised to bring with you. I shall live till 
then.” 

So he had knelt by her bedside and had prayed for her 
and for himself, and for all th.e erring. His compassionate 
heart had room for them all. 

For twenty miles around there was no man better loved 
than he. His life had been reproachless, and his tender 
nature never turned from the performance of a good deed, 
though it entailed suffering and privation upon himself. 
These were matters not to be considered when duty beck- 
oned to him. A poor man, and one who very often de- 
prived himself of a meal in the cause of charity. A priest 
in the truest sense of the word. 

Seldom, in the course of a long, merciful, and charitable 


300 


GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 


career, had he met with so much cause to grieve as on the 
present occasion. In the first place, because it was an 
added proof to the many he had received that a false step 
in life, in the taking of which one human being caused 
another to suffer, was certain to bring at some time or 
other its own bitter punishment ; in the second place, be- 
cause in this particular instance, the punishment, and the 
remorse that must surely follow, were as terrible as the 
mind of man could conceive. 

His road lay towards the hill upon which the desperate 
conflict between John Vanbrugh and Gautran was taking 
place. There was no occasion for him to cross this hill ; 
by skirting its base he could follow the road he intended 
to take. But as he approached the spot, the wind bore to 
him, in moments when the fury of the storm was lulled, 
cries which sounded in his ears like cries of pain and de- 
spair They were faint, and difficult to ascribe to any pre- 
cise definite cause ; they might be the cries of an animal, 
but even in that case it was more than likely that Father 
Capel would have proceeded in their direction. Presently, 
however, he heard a human cry for help ; the word was 
distinct, and it decided his movements. Without hesita- 
tion he began to climb the hill. 

As he approached nearer and nearer to the spot on 
which the struggle was proceeding, there was no longer 
room to doubt its nature. 

“ Holy Mother ! ” murmured the priest, quickening his 
steps, “ will the evil passions of men never be stilled? It 
seems as if murder were being done here. Grant that I 
am not too late to avert the crime ! ” 

Then came the terrific lightning-flash, followed imme- 
diately by Gautran’s piercing scream as he was struck 
down by the tree. 

“Who calls for help?” cried Father Capel, in a loud 
voice, but his words were lost in the peals of thunder 
which shook the earth and made it tremble beneath his 
feet. When comparative silence reigned, he shouted 
again : 

“ Who calls for help? I am a priest, and tender it.” 

Gautran’s voice answered him : 

“ Here — here ! I am crushed and dying ! ” 


301 


GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 

This appeal was not coherently made, but the groans 
which accompanied it guided Father Capel to the spot 
upon which Gautran lay. He felt amid the darkness and 
shuddered at the touch of blood, and then he clasped 
Gautran’s right hand. The tree had fallen across the mur- 
derer’s legs, and had so crushed them into the earth that 
he could not move the lower part of his body; his chest 
and arms were free. A heavy branch had inflicted a terri- 
ble gash on his forehead, and it was from this wound that 
he was bleeding to death. 

“Who are you?” said Father Capel, kneeling by the 
dying man, “ that lies here in this sad condition ? I cannot 
see you. Is this Heaven’s deed, or man’s ? ” 

“ It is Heaven’s,” gasped Gautran, “ and I am justly 
punished.” 

“ I heard the sounds of a struggle between two men. 
Are you one of those who were fighting in the midst of 
this awful darkness ? ” 

“ Yes, I am one.” 

“And the design,” continued Father Capel, “ was mur- 
der. You do not answer me; your silence is sufficient con- 
firmation. Are you hurt much ? ” 

“ I am hurt to death. In a few minutes I shall be in 
eternal fire unless you grant me absolution and forgive- 
ness for my crimes.” , 

“ Speak first the truth. Were you set upon, or were you 
the attacker in this evil combat ? ” 

“ I attacked him first.” 

“ Then he may be dead ! ” exclaimed Father Capel, and 
rising hastily to his feet, he peered into the darkness, and 
felt about with his hands, and called aloud to know if the 
other man was conscious. “ This is horrible,” said the 
priest, in deep perplexity, scarcely knowing what it was 
best to do ; “ one man dying, another in all likelihood 
dead.” 

He turned as if about to go, and Gautran, divining his 
intention, cried in a tone of agony : 

“ Do not leave me, father, do not leave me ! ” 

“ Truly,” murmured the priest, “ it seems to me that my 
present duty is more with the living than the dead.” He 
knelt again by the side of Gautran. “ Miserable wretch, 


302 


GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 


if the man you attacked be dead, you have murdered him, 
and you have been smitten for your crime. It may not be 
the only sin that lies upon your soul.” 

“ It is not, it is not,” groaned Gautran. “ My strength 
is deserting me ; I can hardly speak. Father, is there hope 
for a murderer? Do not let me die yet. Give me some- 
thing to revive me. I am fainting.” 

“I have nothing with me to restore your strength. To 
go for wine, and for assistance to remove this heavy tim- 
ber which imprisons you — my weak arms cannot stir it — 
cannot be accomplished in less than half an hour. It will 
be best, perhaps, for me to take this course ; in the mean- 
time, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of 
your heart and soul, for Divine forgiveness. What is your 
name ? ” 

“ I am Gautran,” faintly answered the murderer. 

Father Capets frame shook under the influence of a 
strong agitation. 

“ From the bedside of the woman I have left within the 
hour,” he murmured, “ to this poor sinner who has but a 
few minutes to live ! The hand of God is visible in it.” 

He addressed himself to the dying man : 

“ You are he who was tried for the murder of Madeline, 
the flower-girl ? ” 

“ I am he,” moaned Gautran. 

“ Hearken to me,” said Father Capel. “ For that crime 
you were tried and acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which 
pronounced you innocent. But you are now about to 
appear before the Divine throne for judgment; and from 
God nothing can be hidden. He sees into the hearts of 
men. Who is ready — as you but now admitted to me — to 
commit one murder, and who, perhaps, has committed it 
for, from the silence, I infer that the body of your victim 
lies at no great distance, will not shrink from committing 
two. Answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. Were you 
guilty or innocent of the murder of Madeline ? ” 

“ I was guilty,” groaned Gautran. “ Wretch that I am, 
I killed her. I loved her, father — I loved her ! ” 

Gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid 
gasps of agony, could say no more ; his senses were fast 
leaving him. 


GAUTRAN IN HIS PERIL 303 

“Ah me — ah me ! ” sighed Father Capel ; “ how shall 
such a crime be expiated ? ” 

“ Father,” moaned Gautran, rallying a little, “ had I 
lived till to-morrow, I intended to buy masses for the re- 
pose of her soul. I will buy them now, and for my own 
soul too. I have money. Feel in my pocket ; there is 
gold. Take it all — all — every piece — and tell me I am for- 
given.” 

Father Capel did not attempt to take the money. 

“ Stolen gold will not buy absolution or the soul’s 
repose,” he said sadly. “ Crime upon crime — sin upon sin ! 
Gautran, evil spirits have been luring you to destruction.” 

“ I did not steal the gold,” gasped Gautran. “ It was 
given to me — freely given.” 

“ Forgiveness you cannot hope for,” said Father Capel, 
“if in these awful moments you swerve from the truth by a 
hair’s-breadth. Confess you stole the gold, and tell me 
from whom, so that it may be restored.” 

“ May eternal torments be mine if I stole it ! Believe 
me, father — believe me. I speak the truth.” 

“ Who gave it to you, then ? ” 

“ The Advocate.” 

“ The Advocate ! He who defended you, and so blinded 
the judgment of men as to cause them to set a murderer 
loose ? ” 

“ Yes ; he, and no other man.” 

“From what motive, Gautran — compassion?” 

“ No, from fear.” 

“ What reason has he to fear you ? ” 

“ I have his secret, as he had mine, and he wished to get 
rid of me, so that he and I should never meet again. It 
was for that he gave me the gold.” 

“ What is the nature of this secret which made him fear 
your presence ? ” 

“ He knew me to be guilty.” 

“ What do you say? When he defended you, he knew 
you to be guilty ? ” 

“Aye, he knew it well.” 

“ Incredible — horrible ! ” exclaimed Father Capel, rais- 
ing his hands. “ He shared, then, your crime. Yes ; though 
he committed not the deed, his guilt is as heavy as the 


304 


THE WRITTEN CONFESSION 


guilt of the murderer. How will he atone for it? — how 
can atone for it? And if what I otherwise fear to be 
true, what pangs of remorse await him ! ” 

A frightful scream from Gautran arrested his further 
speech. • 

“ Save me, father — save me!” shrieked the wretch. 
“ Send her away! Tell her I repent. See, there — there! 
— she is creeping upon me, along the tree ! ” 

“ What is it you behold amidst the darkness of this 
appalling night? ” asked Father Capel, crossing himself. 

“ It is Madeline — her spirit that will never, never leave 
me ! Will you not be satisfied, you, with my punishment ? 
Is not my death enough for you ? You fiend — you fiend ! 
I will strangle you if -you come closer. Have mercy — 
mercy! You are a priest; have you no power over her? 
Then what is the use of prayer ? It is a mockery — a mock- 
ery ! My eyes are filled with blood ! Ah ! ” 

Then all was silent. 

“ Gautran,” whispered Father Capel, “ take this cross 
in your hand ; put it to your lips and repeat the words I 
say. Gautran, do you hear me? No sound — no sound! 
He has gone to his account, unrepentant and unforgiven ! ” 
Father Capel rose to his feet. 

“ I will seek assistance at once ; there is another to be 
searched for. Ah, terrible, terrible night! Heaven have 
mercy upon us ! ” 

And with a heart overburdened with grief, the good 
priest left the spot to seek for help. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE WRITTEN CONFESSION 

D URING the whole of this interview John Vanbrugh 
had lain concealed within two or three yards of 
the fallen tree, and had heard every word that had 
passed between Gautran and Father Capel. For a few 
moments after he had thrown Gautran from him he was 
dazed and exhausted by the struggle in which he had been 
en gaged, and by the crashing of the timber which had 


THE WRITTEN CONFESSION 305 

saved him from his deadly foe. Gradually he realised 
what had occurred, and when Father Capel’s voice reached 
his ears he resolved not to discover himself, and to be a 
silent witness of what transpired. 

In this decision lay safety for himself and absolute im- 
munity, for Gautran knew nothing of him, not even his 
name, and to be dragged into the light, to be made to 
give evidence of the scene in which he had been a principal 
actor, would have seriously interfered with his plan of ac- 
tion respecting the Advocate. 

Favoured by the night, he had no difficulty in concealing 
himself, and he derived an inward satisfaction from the 
reflection that he might turn even the tragic and unex- 
pected event that had occurred to his own immediate 
advantage. He had not been seriously hurt in the con- 
flict; a few bruises and scratches comprised the injuries 
he had received. 

Among his small gifts lay the gift of mimicry ; he could 
imitate another man’s voice to perfection ; and when 
Father Capel left Gautran for the purpose of obtaining 
assistance, an idea crossed his mind which he determined 
to carry out. He waited until he was assured that Father 
Capel was entirely out of hearing, and then he stepped 
from his hiding-place, and knelt by the side of Gautran. 
Having now no fear of his enemy, he placed his ear to 
Gautran’s heart and listened. 

“ He breathes,” he muttered, “ there is yet a little life 
left in him.” 

He raised Gautran’s head upon his knee, and taking his 
flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured some of the 
liquor down the dying man’s throat. It revived him ; he 
opened his eyes languidly ; but he had not strength enough 
left in him to utter more than a word or two at the time. 

“ I have returned, Gautran,” said John Vanbrugh, imi- 
tating the voice-of the priest ; “ I had it not in my heart to 
desert you in your last moments. The man you fought 
with is dead, and in his pocket I found this flask of 
brandy. It serves one good purpose ; it will give you time 
to earn salvation. You have two murders upon your soul. 
Are you prepared to do as I bid you ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Gautran. 


306 


THE WRITTEN CONFESSION 


“ Answer my questions, then. What do you know of 
the man whom you have slain ? ” 

Nothing.” 

“Was he, then, an absolute stranger to you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You do not even know his name? ” 

“ No.” 

“ There is no time to inquire into your reasons for at- 
tacking him, for I perceive from your breathing that your 
end is very near, and the precious moments must not be 
wasted. It is your soul — your soul — that has to be saved ! 
And there is only one way — the guilty must be punished. 
You have met your punishment. Heaven’s lightning has 
struck you down. These gold pieces which I now take 
from your pocket shall be expended in masses. Rest easy, 
rest easy, Gautran. There is but one thing for you to do — 
and then you will have made atonement. You hear me — 
you understand me ? ” 

“ Yes — quick — quick !” 

“To die, leaving behind you no record of the guilt of 
your associate — of the Advocate who, knowing you to be 
a murderer, deliberately defeated the ends of justice — will 
be to provoke Divine anger against you. There is no hope 
for pardon in that case. Can you write ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Your name, with my assistance, you could trace? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ I will write a confession which you must sign. Then 
you shall receive absolution.” 

He poured a few drops of brandy into Gautran’s mouth, 
and they were swallowed with difficulty. After this he 
allowed Gautran’s head to rest upon the earth, and tore 
from his pocket-book some sheets of blank paper, upon 
which, with much labour, he wrote the following : 

“ I, Gautran, the woodman, lately tried for the mur- 
der of Madeline, the flower-girl, being now upon the point 
cf death, and conscious that I have only a few minutes to 
live, and being in full possession of my reason, hereby 
make oath, and swear: 

“ That being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial, I 
believed there was no escape from the doom I justly 
merited, for the reason that I was guilty of the murder. 


THE WRITTEN CONFESSION 307 

“ That some days before my trial was to take place, the 
Advocate who defended me voluntarily undertook to 
prove to my judges that I was innocent of the crime I 
committed. 

“ That with this full knowledge he conducted my case 
with such ability that I was set free and pronounced inno- 
cent. 

“ That on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had 
struck, and when every person but himself in the House of 
White Shadows was asleep, I secretly visited him in his 
study, and remained with him some time. 

“ That he gave me food and money, and bade me go my 
way. 

“ That I am ignorant of the motives which induced him 
to whom I was a perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat 
the ends of justice. 

“ That the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the 
fact that I made a full confession to him. 

“ To which I solemnly swear, being about to appear 
before a just God to answer for my crime. I pray for 
forgiveness and mercy. 

“ Signed .” 

And here John Vanbrugh left a space for Gautran’s 
name. He read the statement to Gautran, who was now 
fast sinking, and then he raised the dying man’s head 
in his arms, and holding the pencil in the almost nerve- 
less fingers, assisted him to trace the name “ Gau- 
tran/' 

This was no sooner accomplished than Gautran, with a 
wild scream, fell back. 

John Vanbrugh lost not another moment. With an ex- 
ultant smile he placed the fatal evidence in his pocket, and 
prepared to depart. As he did so he heard the voices of 
men who were ascending the hill. 

“ This paper,” thought Vanbrugh, as he crept softly 
away in an opposite direction, “ is worth, I should say, 
at least half the Advocate’s fortune. It is the ruin of his 
life and career, and, if he does not purchase it of me on my 
own terms, let him look to himself.” 

When Father Capel, with the men he had summoned 
to his assistance, arrived at the spot upon which Gautran 
lay, the murderer was dead. 


308 DISCOVERY OF THE MANUSCRIPT 


BOOK VI.— A RECORD OF THE PAST 


CHAPTER I 

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MANUSCRIPT 

ALL was silent in the House of White Shadows. 

ZA Strange as was the drama that was in progress 
JL A within its walls it found no open expression, and 
to the Advocate, seated alone in his study, was about to 
be unfolded a record of events long buried in the past, the 
disclosure of which had not, up to this moment, been re- 
vealed to man. During the afternoon, the Advocate had 
said to Christian Aimer : 

“ Now that I have leisure, I intend, with your permis- 
sion, to devote some time to your father’s works. In his 
day, certainly for a number of years, he was celebrated, 
and well known in many countries, and I have heard sur- 
prise expressed that a career which promised to shed last- 
ing lustre upon the name you bear seemed suddenly to 
come to an end. Of this abrupt break in the labours of an 
eminent man there is no explanation — as to what led to it, 
and in what way it was broken off. I may chance upon 
the reason of a singular and complete diversion from a 
pursuit which he loved. It will interest me, if you will 
give me permission to search among his papers.” 

“A permission,” rejoined Christian Aimer, “ freely ac- 
corded. Everything in the study is at your disposal. For 
my own part the impressions of my childhood are of such 
a nature as to render distasteful the records of my father’s 
labours. But you are a student and a man of deeper ob- 
servation and research than myself. You may unearth 
something of value. I place all my father’s manuscripts 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S FATHER 309 

at your unreserved disposal. Pray, read them if you care 
to do so, and use them in any way you may desire.” 

Thus it happened that, two hours before midnight, the 
Advocate, after looking through a number of manuscripts, 
most of them in an incomplete shape, came upon some 
written pages, the opening lines of which exercised upon 
him a powerful fascination. The only heading of these 
pages was, “A Faithful Record.” And it was made in 
the following strain : 


CHAPTER II 

CHRISTIAN ALMER'S FATHER 

“TT devolves upon me, Ernest Christian Aimer, as a 
I duty, to set down here, in a brief form, before I die, 

A the record of certain events in my life which led me 
to the commission of a crime. Whether justifiable or not 
— whether this which I call a crime may be otherwise des- 
ignated as an accident or as the execution of a just pun- 
ishment for trust and friendship betrayed — is for others 
to determine. 

“ It is probable that no human eye will read what I am 
about to write until I am dead ; but if it should be brought 
to light in my lifetime I am ready to bear the consequences 
of my act. The reason why I myself do nothing to assist 
directly in the discovery (except in so far as making this 
record and placing it without concealment among my 
manuscripts) is that I may in that way be assisting in 
bringing into the life of my dear son, Christian Aimer, a 
stigma and a reproach which will be a cause of suffering 
to him. If it should happen that many years elapse 
before these lines fall into the hands of a human being, if 
may perhaps be for the best. What is done is done, and 
cannot be recalled. Even had I the power to bring the 
dead to life I doubt whether I should avail myself of it. 

“ My name is not unknown to the small world in which 
I live and move, and I once cherished a hope that I should 
succeed in making it famous. That hope is now like a 
flower burnt to ashes, never more to blossom. It proves 


310 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S FATHER 


the vanity of ambition upon which we pride ourselves and 
which we imbue with false nobility. 

“As a lad I was almost morbidly tender in my nature ; I 
shrank from giving pain to living creature; the ordinary 
pursuits of childhood, in which cruelty to insects forms so 
prominent a feature, were to me revolting ; to strip even a 
flower of its leaves was in my eyes a cruel proceeding. 
And yet I have lived to take a human life. 

“ My earliest aspiration was to win a name in literature. 
Every book I read and admired assisted in making this 
youthful aspiration a fixed purpose when I became a man. 
Often, as I read the last words of a book which had fired 
my imagination, would I think, and sometimes say aloud, 
‘ Gladly would I die were I capable of writing a work so 
good, so grand as this.’ 

“ My parents were rich, and allowed me to follow my 
bent. When they died I was left sole heir to their wealth. 
I had not to struggle as poorer men in the profession to 
which I resolved to devote myself have had to do. So 
much the worse for me perhaps — but that now matters 
little. Whether the books I hoped to write would be 
eagerly sought after or not was of no moment to me. 
What I desired was to produce; for the rest, as to being 
successful or unsuccessful, I was equal to either fortune. 

“ I made many friends and acquaintances, who grew to 
learn that they could use and enjoy my house as their own. 
In setting this down I lay no claim to unusual generosity ; 
it was on my part simply the outcome of a nature that 
refused to become a slave to rigid forms of hospitality. 
The trouble entailed would have been too great, and I de- 
clined to undertake it. I chose to employ my hours after 
my own fashion — the fashion of solitude. I found great 
pleasure in it, and to see my friends around me without 
feeling myself called upon to sacrifice my time for their 
enjoyment, knowing (as they well knew) that they were 
welcome to the best my wealth and means could supply 
them with — this added to my pleasure a peculiar charm. 
They were satisfied, and so was I ; and only in one instance 
was my hospitality abused and my friendship betrayed. 
But had I been wise, this one instance would never have 
occurred to destroy the hopes of my life. 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S FATHER 311 

“Although it is running somewhat ahead of the se- 
quence of events, I may mention here the name of the man 
who proved false to friendship. It was M. Gabriel. He 
was almost young enough to be my son, and when I first 
knew him he was a boy and I was a man. He was an art- 
ist, with rare talents, and at the outset of his career I 
assisted him, for, like the majority of artists, he was poor. 
This simple mention of him will be sufficient for the pres- 
ent. 

“As when I was a lad I took no delight in the pleasures 
of lads of my own age, so when I was a man I did not go 
the way of men in that absorbing passion to which is 
given the name of Love. Those around me were drawn 
into the net which natural impulse and desire spread for 
mankind. There was no credit in this ; it was simply that 
it did not happen. I was by no means a woman-hater, but 
it would seem as if the pursuits to which I was devoted 
were too engrossing to admit of a rival. So I may say 
what few can say — that I had passed my fortieth year, 
and had never loved. 

“ My turn came, however. 

“ Among my guests were the lady who afterwards be- 
came my wife, and her parents. A sweet and beautiful 
lady, twenty-five years my junior. My unhappiness and 
ruin sprang from the chance which brought us together — 
as did her wretchedness and misery. In this I was more 
to blame than she — much more to blame. In the ordinary 
course of a life which had reached beyond its middle age 
I should have acquired sufficient experience to learn that 
youth should mate with youth — that nature has its laws 
which it is dangerous to trifle with. But such experience 
did not come to 1 me. At forty-five years of age I was as 
unlearned as a child in matters of the heart; I had no 
thought of love or marriage, and the youngest man of my 
acquaintance would have laughed at my simplicity had the 
opportunity been afforded him of seeing my inner life. It 
was not the fault of the young lady that she knew nothing 
of this simplicity. No claim whatever had I to demand 
to be judged by special and exceptional rules. She had a 
perfect right to judge me as any other man of my age 
would have been judged. All that can be said of it was 


312 CHRISTIAN ALMER’S FATHER 


that it was most unfortunate for her and for me. If it 
should happen (which is not unlikely, for the unforeseen 
is always occurring) that these pages should be read by a 
man who is contemplating marriage with one young 
enough to be his daughter, I would advise him to pause 
and submit his case to the test of natural reason; for if 
both live, there must come a time when nature will take its 
revenge for the transgression. The glamour of the pres- 
ent is very alluring, but it is the duty of the wiser and the 
riper of the twain to consider the future, which will press 
more hardly upon the woman than upon the man. With 
the fashion of things as regards the coupling of the sexes 
I have nothing to do ; fashions are artificial and often most 
mischievous. Frequently, when the deeper laws of nature 
are involved, they are destructive and fatal. 

“It was my misfortune that during the visit of the young 
lady and her parents, the father, an old and harmless gen- 
tleman, met his death through an accident while he, I, and 
other gentlemen were riding. In my house he died-. 

“ It occasioned me distress and profound sorrow, and I 
felt myself in some way accountable, though the fault was 
none of mine. Before his death he and I had private con- 
fidences, in which he asked me to look after his affairs, 
and if, as he feared, they were in an embarrassed state, to 
act as protector to his daughter. I gave him the promise 
readily, and, when he died, I took a journey for the pur- 
pose of ascertaining how the widow and the orphan were 
circumstanced. I found that they were literally beggars. 
As gently as I could I broke the news to them. The 
mother understood it; the daughter scarcely knew its 
meaning. Her charming, artless ignorance of the conse- 
quences of poverty deeply interested me, and I resolved 
in my mind how I could best serve her and render her 
future a happy one. 

“ Speaking as I am in a measure to my own soul, I will 
descend to no duplicity. That I was entirely unselfish in 
my desire that her life should be bright and free from 
anxieties with which she could not cope is true; but none 
the less true is it that, for the first time, I felt myself under 
the dominion of a passion deeper and more significant 
than I had ever felt for woman. It was love, I believe, 


CHRISTIAN ALMER’S FATHER 313 

but love in which there was reason. For I took myself to 
task ; I set my age and hers before me ; I did this on paper, 
and as I gazed at the figures I said, ‘Absurd ; it is not in 
nature, and I must fight it down.’ I did wrestle with it, 
and although I did not succeed in vanquishing it, I was 
sufficiently master of myself to keep the struggle hidden iri 
my own breast. 

“ How, then, did this hapless lady become my wife ? 
Not, in the first instance, through any steps voluntarily 
and unreasoningly taken by myself. I had firmly resolved 
to hold my feelings in check. It was the mother who 
accomplished that upon which she had set her heart. I 
may speak freely. This worldly mother has been long 
dead, and my confession cannot harm her. It was she 
who ruined at least the happiness of one life, and made 
me what I am. 

“ Needless here to recount the arts by which she worked 
to the end she desired; needless to speak of the deceits 
she practised to make me believe her daughter loved me. 
It may be that the fault was mine, and that I was too 
ready to believe. Sufficient to say that we fell into the 
snare she prepared for us ; that, intoxicated by the prospect 
of an earthly heaven, I accepted the meanings she put on 
her daughter’s reserve and apparent coldness, and that, 
once engaged in the enterprise, I was animated by the 
ardour of my own heart, in which I allowed the flower of 
love to grow to fruition. So we were married, and with 
no doubt of the future I set out with my wife on our bridal 
tour. She was both child and wife to me, and I solemnly 
resolved and most earnestly desired to do my duty by her. 

“ Before we were many days away news arrived that 
my wife’s mother had met with an accident, in a part of 
the grounds which was being beautified by my workmen 
according to plans I had prepared for the pleasure of my 
young bride — an accident so serious that death could not 
be averted. In sadness we returned to the villa. My 
wife’s coldness I ascribed to grief — to no other cause. 
And, indeed, apart from the sorrow I felt at the dreadful 
news, I was myself overwhelmed for a time by the fatality 
which had deprived my wife of her parents within so 
short a time on my estate, and while they were my guests. 


314 A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 


‘ But it will pass away/ I thought, ‘ and I will be parents, 
lover, husband, to the sweet flower who has given her hap- 
piness into my keeping/ When we arrived at the villa, 
her mother was dead. 

“ I allowed my wife’s grief to take its natural course ; 
seeing that she wished for solitude, I did not intrude upon 
her sorrow. I had to study this young girl’s feelings and 
impulses ; it was my duty to be tender and considerate to 
her. I was wise, and thoughtful, and loving, as I believed, 
and I spared no effort to comfort without disturbing her. 
‘ Time will console her/ I thought, ‘ and then we will be- 
gin a new life. She will learn to look upon me not only 
as a husband, but as a protector who will fully supply the 
place of those she has lost/ I was patient — very patient 
— and I waited for the change. It never came. 

“ She grew more and more reserved towards me ; and 
still I waited, and still was patient. Not for a moment 
did I lose sight of my duty. 

“ But after a long time had passed I began to question 
myself--I began to doubt whether I had not allowed my- 
self to be deceived. Is it possible, I asked myself, that 
she married me without loving me ? When this torturing 
doubt arose I thrust it indignantly from me; it was as 
though I was casting a stain upon her truth and purity. 


CHAPTER III 

A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 

“T WILL not recount the continual endeavours I made 
to win my wife to cheerfulness and a better frame 
A of mind. Sufficient to say that they were unsuc- 
cessful, and that many and many a time I gave up the at- 
tempt in despair, to renew it again under the influence of 
false hopes. Unhappy and disheartened, the pursuits in 
which I had always taken delight afforded me now no 
pleasure, and though I sought relief in solitude and study, 
I did not find it. My peace of mind was utterly wrecked. 
There was, however, in the midst of my wretchedness, one 
ray of light. In the course of a little while a child would 


A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 315 

be born to us, and this child might effect what I was un- 
able to accomplish. When my wife pressed her baby to 
her breast, when it drew life from her bosom, she might be 
recalled to a sense of duty and of some kind of affection 
which I was ready to accept in the place of that thorough 
devoted love which I bore to her, and which I had hoped 
she would bear to me. 

“ Considering this matter with as much wisdom as I 
could bring to my aid, I recognised the desirability of sur- 
rounding my wife with signs of pleasant and even joyful 
life. Gloomy parents are cursed with gloomy children. 
I would fill my house once more with friends ; my wife 
should move in an atmosphere of cheerfulness; there 
should be music, laughter, sunny looks, happy voices. 
These could not fail to influence for good both my wife 
and our little one soon to be born. 

“ I called friends around me, and I took special care 
that there should be many young people among them. 
Their presence, however, did not at first arouse my wife 
from her melancholy, and it was not until the man whose 
name I have already mentioned — M. Gabriel — arrived that 
I noticed in her any change for the better. 

“ He came, and I introduced him to my wife, believing 
them to have been hitherto strangers to each other. I had 
no reason to believe otherwise when I presented M. 
Gabriel to her; had they met before, it would have been 
but honest that one or both should have made me ac- 
ciuainted with the fact. They did not, by direct or in- 
direct word, and I had, therefore, no cause for suspicion. 

“ Things went on as usual for a week or two after M. 
Gabriel’s arrival, and then I noticed with joy that my wife 
was beginning to grow more cheerful. My happiness 
was great. I have been too impatient, I thought, with 
this young girl. The shock of losing her parents, one 
after another, under circumstances so distressing, was 
sufficient to upset a stronger mind than hers. How un- 
wise in me that I should have tormented myself as f had 
been doing for so many months past ! And how unjust 
to her that, because she was sorrowful and silent, I should 
have doubted her love for me! But all was well now; 
comfort had come to her bruised heart, and the book of 


316 A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 

happiness was not closed to me as I had feared. A ter- 
rible weight, a gnawing grief, were lifted from me. For 
I could imagine no blacker treason than that a woman 
should deliberately deceive a man into the belief that she 
loved him, and that she should marry him under such con- 
ditions. My wife had not done this ; I had wronged her. 
Most fervently did I thank Heaven that I had discovered 
my error before it was too late to repair it. 

“ I saw that my wife took pleasure in M. Gabriel’s so- 
ciety, and I made him as free of my house as if it had been 
his own. He had commissions to execute, pictures to 
paint. 

“ ‘ Paint them here,’ I said to him, ‘ you bring happi- 
ness to us. I look upon you as though you belonged to 
my family.’ 

“ In the summer-house was a room which he used as a 
studio; no artist could have desired a better, and M. 
Gabriel said he had never been able to paint as well as he 
was doing in my house. It gladdened me to observe that 
my wife, who had for a little while been reserved towards 
M. Gabriel, looked upon him now as a sister might look 
upon a brother. I encouraged their intimacy, and was 
grateful to M. Gabriel for accepting my hospitality in the 
free spirit in which it was tendered. He expressed a wish 
to paint my wife’s portrait, and I readily consented. My 
wife gave him frequent sittings, sometimes in my com- 
pany, sometimes alone. And still no word was spoken to 
acquaint me with the fact that my wife and he had known 
each other before they met in my house. 

“ My child was born — a boy. My happiness would 
have been complete had my wife shown me a little more 
affection ; but again, after the birth of our child, it dawned 
upon me that she cared very little for me, and that the 
feelings she entertained for me in no wise resembled those 
which a loving woman should feel towards a husband who 
was indefatigable, as indeed I was, in his efforts to pro- 
mote her happiness. Even then it did not strike me that 
she was happier in M. Gabriel’s society than she was in 
mine. The truth, however, was now to be made known 
to me. It reached me through the idle tittle-tattling of 
one of my guests ; of my own prompting I doubt whether 


A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 317 

I should ever have discovered it. I overheard this lady 
making some injurious observations respecting my wife; 
no man’s name was mentioned, but I heard enough to 
cause me to resolve to hear more, and to put an end at 
once to the utterances of a malicious tongue. 

“ During my life, in matters of great moment, I have 
seldom acted upon impulse, and the value of calm delibera- 
tion after sudden excitement of feeling has frequently 
been made apparent to me. 

“ I sought this lady, and told her that I had overheard 
the remarks she had made on the previous day; that I 
was profoundly impressed by them, and intended to know 
what foundation there was for even a breath of scandal. 
I had some difficulty in bringing her to the point, but I 
was determined, and would be satisfied with no evasions. 

“ ‘ I love my wife, madam,’ I said, ‘ too well to be con- 
tent with half words and innuendoes, which in their effect 
are worse than open accusations.’ 

“ ‘ Accusations ! ’ exclaimed the lady. ‘ Good Heavens ! 
I have brought none.’ 

“ ‘ It is for that reason I complain,’ I said ; ‘ accusations 
can be met, and are by no means so much to be feared as 
idle words which affect the honour of those who are the 
subject of them.’ 

“ ‘ I merely repeated,’ then said the lady, ‘ what others 
have been saying for a long time past.’ 

“ ‘ And what have others been saying for a long time 
past, madam ? ’ I asked, with an outward calmness which 
deceived her into the belief that I was not taking the 
matter seriously to heart. 

“ ‘ I am sure it is very foolish of them,’ said the lady, 
‘ and that there is nothing in it. But people are so mis- 
chievous, and place such dreadful constructions upon 
things! It is, after all, only natural that when, after a 
long separation, young lovers meet, they should feel a little 
tender towards each other, even though one of them has 
got married in the interval. We all go through such 
foolish experiences, and when we grow as old as you and 
I are, we laugh at them.’ 

“ ‘ Probably, madam,’ I said, still with exceeding calm- 
ness ; ‘ but before we can laugh with any genuineness or 


318 A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 


enjoyment, it is necessary to have some knowledge of the 
cause of our mirth. When young lovers meet, you said, 
after a long separation, it is natural they should feel 
a tenderness towards each other. But we are speaking of 
my wife.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ she replied, ‘ of your wife, and I am sure you 
are too sensible a man — so much older than that sweet 
creature ! — to make any unnecessary bother about it.’ 

“ She knew well how to plant daggers in my heart. 

“ ‘ My wife, then, is one of those young lovers ? You 
really must answer me, madam. These are, after all, but 
foolish experiences. , 

“ ‘ I am glad you are taking it so sensibly/ she rejoined. 
‘ Yes, your wife is one of the young lovers/ 

“ ‘ And the other, madam.’ 

“ * Why, who else should it be but M. Gabriel ? ’ 

“ I did not speak for a few moments. The shock was 
so severe that I required time to recover some semblance 
of composure. 

“ ‘ My mind is much relieved/ I said. ‘ There is not 
the slightest foundation for scandal, and I trust that this 
interview will put 'an effectual stop to it. My wife and 
M. Gabriel have not been long acquainted. They met 
each other for the -first time in this house.’ 

“ ‘ Ah/ cried the lady very vivaciously, * you want to 
deceive me now; but it is nonsense. Your wife and M. 
Gabriel have known each other for many years. They 
were once affianced.' Had you not stepped in, there is no 
knowing what might have occurred. It is much better 
as it is — I am sure you think so. What can be worse for 
a young and beautiful creature than to marry a poor and 
struggling artist? M. Gabriel is very talented, but he is 
very poor. By the time he is a middle-aged man he may 
have made his way in the world, and then his little 
romance will be forgotten — quite forgotten. I dare say 
you can look back to the time when you were as young as 
he is, and can recall somebody you were madly in love 
with, but of whom you never think, except by the merest 
chance. These things are so common, you see. And 
now don’t let us talk any more about it.’ 

“ I had no desire to exchange another word with the 


A DISHONOURABLE CONCEALMENT 319 

lady on the subject; I allowed her to rest in the belief 
that I had been acquainted with the whole affair, and did 
not wish it to get about. She promised me never to speak 
of it again to her friends in any injurious way, said it was 
a real pleasure to see what a sensible view I took of the 
matter, and our interview was at an end. 

“ I had learnt all. At length, at length my eyes were 
opened, and the perfidy which had been practised towards 
me was revealed. All was explained. My wife’s con- 
stant coldness, her insensibility to the affectionate ad- 
vances I had made towards her, her pleasure at meeting 
her lover — the unworthy picture lay before my sight. 
There was no longer any opportunity for self-deception. 
Had I not recognised and acknowledged the full extent 
of the treason, I should have become base in my own 
esteem. It was not that they had been lovers — that knowl- 
edge in itself would have been hard to bear — but that they 
should have concealed it from me, that they should have 
met in my presence as strangers, that they should have 
tacitly agreed to trick me! — for hours I could not think 
with calmness upon these aspects of the misery which 
had been forced upon me. For she, my wife, was in the 
first instance responsible for our marriage ; she could have 
refused me. I was in utter ignorance of a love which, 
during all these years, had been burning in her heart, and 
making her life and mine a torture. Had she been honest, 
had she been true, she would have said to me : ‘ I love an- 
other ; how, then, can I accept the love you offer me, and 
how can you hope for a return? If circumstances com- 
pel me to marry you there must be no concealment, no 
treason. You must take me as I am, and never, never 
make my coldness the cause of reproach or unhappiness.’ 
Yes, this much she might have said to me when I offered 
her my name — a name upon which there had hitherto been 
no stain and no dishonour. I should not have married 
her ; I should have acted as a father towards her ; I should 
have conducted her to the arms of her lover, and into their 
lives and mine would not have crept this infamy, this 
blight, this shame which even death cannot efface. 

“ Of such a nature were my thoughts during the day. 

“ Then came the resolve to be sure before I took action 


320 


M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 


in the matter. The evidence of my own senses should 
convince me that in my own house my wife and her lover 
were playing a base part, were systematically deceiving 
me and laughing at me. 

“ Of this man, this friend, whom I had taken to my 
heart, my horror and disgust were complete. I, whose 
humane instincts had in my youth been made the sport of 
my companions, who shrank from inflicting the slightest 
injury upon the meanest creature that crawled upon the 
earth, who would not even strip the leaves from a flower, 
found myself now transformed. Had M. Gabriel been in 
my presence at any moment during these hours of agonis- 
ing thought, I should have torn him limb from limb 
and rejoiced in my cruelty. So little do we know our- 
selves. 


CHAPTER IV 

M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 

“T WAS up the whole of the night ; I did not close my 
eyes, and when morning broke I had schooled my- 
A self to the task before me — to assure myself of the 
truth and the extent of the shame. 

“ I kept watch, and did not betray myself to them, and 
what I saw filled me with amazement at my blindness and 
credulity. That my wife was not guilty, that she was 
not faithless to me in the ordinary acceptation of the term, 
was no palliation of her conduct. 

“ Steadfastly I kept before me one unalterable resolve. 
In the eyes of the world the name I bore should not be 
dishonoured, if by any means it could be prevented. We 
would keep our shame and our deep unhappiness within 
our own walls. In the light of this resolve it was im- 
possible that I could challenge M. Gabriel; he must go 
unpunished by me. My name should not be dragged 
through the mire, to become a byeword for pity. 

“ By degrees, upon one excuse and another, I got rid of 
my visitors, and there remained in the villa only I, my 
wife and child, and M. Gabriel. Then, in M. Gabriel’s 


M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 321 

studio, I broke in upon the lovers, and found my wife in 
tears. 

“ For a moment or two I gazed upon them in silence, 
and they, who had risen in confusion when I presented 
myself, confronted me also in silence, waiting for the 
storm of anger which they expected to burst from me, an 
outraged husband. They were mistaken ; I was outwardly 
calm. 

“ ‘ Madam,’ I inquired, addressing my wife, ‘ may I in- 
quire the cause of your tears ? ’ 

“ She did not reply ; M. Gabriel did. ‘ Let me explain,’ 
he said, but I would not allow him to proceed. 

“ ‘ I do not need you,’ I said, ‘ to interpose between 
man and wife. I may presently have something to say to 
you. Till then, be silent.’ Again I addressed my wife, 
and asked her why she was weeping. 

“ ‘ They are not the first tears I have shed,’ she replied, 
‘ since I entered this unhappy house.’ 

“ ‘ I am aware of it, madam,’ I replied ; ‘ yet the house 
was not an unhappy one before you entered it. Honour, 
and truth, and faithfulness were its characteristics, and 
towards no man or woman who has received hospitality 
within these walls has any kind of treachery been prac- 
tised by me, its master and your husband. Tears are a 
sign of grief, and suffering from it, as I perceive you are, 
I ask you why have you not sought consolation from the 
man whose name you bear, and whose life since you and 
he first met has had but one aim — to render you happy.’ 

“ ‘ You cannot comfort me,’ she said. 

“ ‘ Can he ? ’ I asked, pointing to M. Gabriel. 

“ ‘ You insult me/ she said with great dignity. ‘ I will 
leave you. We can speak of this in private.’ 

“ ‘ You will not leave me,’ I said, ‘ and we will not speak 
of this in private, until after some kind of explanation is 
afforded me from your own lips and the lips of your 
friend. In saying I insult you, there is surely a mistaken 
idea in your mind as to what is due from you to me. M. 
Gabriel, whom I once called a friend, is here, enjoying my 
hospitality, of which I trust he has had no reason to com- 
plain. I find you in tears by his side, and he, by his atti- 
tude, endeavouring to console you. When I ask you, in 


322 


M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 


his presence, why, being in grief, you do not come to me 
for consolation, you reply that I cannot comfort you. Yet 
you were accepting comfort from him, who is not your 
husband. It suggests itself to me that if an insult has 
been passed it has been passed upon me. I do not, how- 
ever, receive it as such, for if an insult has been offered to 
me, M. Gabriel is partly responsible for it, and it is only 
between equals that such an indignity can be offered.’ 

“ ‘ Equals ! ’ cried M. Gabriel ; he understood my words 
in the sense in which I intended them. ‘ I am certainly 
your equal.’ 

“ ‘ It has to be proved,’ I retorted. ‘ I use the term in 
so far as it affects honour and upright conduct between 
man and man. You can bring against me no accusation 
of having failed in those respects in my behaviour towards 
you. It has to be seen whether I can in truth bring such 
an accusation against you, and if I can substantiate it by 
evidence which the commonest mind would not reject, you 
are not my equal. I see that this plain and honest reason- 
ing disturbs you; it should not without sufficient cause. 
Something more. If in addition I can prove that you 
have violated my hospitality, you are not only not my 
equal, but you have descended to a depth of baseness to 
describe which I can find no fitting terms.’ 

“ He grew hot at this. ‘ I decline to be present any 
longer,’ he said, ‘ at an interview conducted in such a man- 
ner.’ And he attempted to leave me, but I stood in his 
way, and would not permit him to pass. 

“ ‘ From this moment,’ I said, ‘ I discharge myself of all 
duties towards you as your host. You are no longer my 
guest, and you will remain at this interview during my 
pleasure.’ 

“ He made another attempt to leave the room, and as he 
accompanied it by violence, I seized his arms, and threw 
him to the ground. He rose, and stood trembling before 
me. 

“ ‘ I make no excuse, madam,’ I said to my wife, ‘ for 
the turn this scene has taken. It is unseemly for men to 
brawl in presence of a lady, but there are occasions when 
of two evils the least must be chosen. Should I find my- 
self mistaken, I shall give to M. Gabriel fhe amplest 


M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 323 

apology he could desire. Let me recall to your mind the 
day on which M. Gabriel first entered my gates as my 
guest. I brought him to you, and presented him to you 
as a friend whom I esteemed, and whom I wished you also 
to esteem. You received him as a stranger, and I had no 
reason to suspect that he and you had been intimate 
friends, and that you were already well known to each 
other. You allowed me to remain in ignorance of this 
fact. Was it honest? 5 

“ ‘ It was not honest/ she replied. 

“ ‘ It made me happy/ I continued, 4 to see, after the 
lapse of a few days, that you found pleasure in his society* 
and I regarded him in the light of a brother to you. I 
trusted him implicitly, and although, madam, you and I 
have been most unhappy, I had no suspicion that there 
was any guilt in this, as I believed, newly-formed friend- 
ship.’ 

“ ‘ There was no guilt in it/ she said very firmly. 

“ * I receive your assurance, and believe it in the sense 
in which you offer it. But in my estimation the word I 
use is the proper word. In the concealment from me of a 
fact with which you or he should have hastened to make 
me acquainted; in the secret confidences necessarily in- 
volved in the carrying out of such an intimacy as yours ; 
there was treachery from wife to husband, from friend to 
friend, and in that treachery there was guilt. By an acci- 
dent, within the past month, a knowledge has come to me 
of a shameful scandal which, had I not nipped it in the 
bud, would have brought open disgrace upon my name 
and house — but the secret disgrace remains, and you have 
brought it into my family.’ 

“ ‘ A shameful scandal ! ’ she exclaimed, and her white 

face grew whiter. ‘ Who has dared ’ 

“ ‘ The world has dared, madam, the world over whose 
tongue we have no control. The nature of the intimacy 
existing between you and M. Gabriel, far exceeding the 
limits of friendship, has provoked remark and comment 
from many of your guests, and we who should have been 
the first to know it, have been the last. From a lady 
stopping in my house I learnt that you and M. Gabriel 
were lovers before you and I met — that you were affianced. 


324 


M. GABRIEL IS DISMISSED 


Madam, had you informed me of this fact you would have 
spared yourself the deepest unhappiness under which any 
human being can suffer. For then you and I would not 
have been bound to each other by a tie which death alone 
can sever. I have, at all events, the solace which right 
doing sometimes sheds upon a wounded heart ; that solace 
cannot unhappily be yours. You have erred consciously, 
and innocent though you proclaim yourself, you have 
brought shame upon yourself and me. I pity you, but 
cannot help you further than by the action I intend to take 
of preventing the occurrence of a deeper shame and a 
deeper disgrace falling upon me. For M. Gabriel I have 
no feelings but those of utter abhorrence. I request him 
to remove himself immediately from my presence and 
from this house. This evening he will send for his paint- 
ings, which shall be delivered to his order. They will 
be placed in this summer-house. And in your presence 
madam, I give M. Gabriel the warning that if at any time, 
or under any circumstances, he intrudes himself within 
these walls, he will do so at his own peril. The protection 
which my honour — not safe in your keeping, madam — 
needs I shall while I live be able to supply.’ 

“ This, in substance, is all that took place while my wife 
was with us. When she was gone I gave instructions that 
M. Gabriel’s paintings and property should be brought to 
the summer-house immediately, and I informed him of 
my intentions regarding them and the room he had used 
as a study. He replied that I would have to give him a 
more satisfactory explanation of my conduct. I took no 
notice of the threat, and I carried out my resolve — which 
converted the study into a tomb in which my honour was 
buried. And on the walls of the study I caused to be in- 
scribed the words ‘ The Grave of Honour.’ 

“ On the evening of that day my wife sent for me, and 
in the presence of Denise, our faithful servant, heard my 
resolve with reference to our future life, and acquainted 
me with her own. The gates would never again be opened 
to friends. Our life was to be utterly secluded, and she 
had determined never to quit her rooms unless for exer- 
cise in the grounds at such times as I was absent from 
them. 


THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT 325 

After to-night,’ she said, ‘ I will never open my lips 
to you, nor, willingly, will I ever again listen to your 
voice.’ 

“ In this interview I learnt the snare, set by my wife’s 
mother, into which we both had fallen. 

“ I left my wife, and our new life commenced — a life 
with hearts shut to love or forgiveness. But I had done 
my duty, and would bear with strength and resignation 
the unmerited misfortunes with which I was visited. 
Not my wife’s, I repeat, the fault alone. I should have 
been wiser, and should have known — apart from any con- 
sideration of M. Gabriel — that my habits, my character, 
my tastes, my age, were entirely unsuitable to the fair 
girl I had married. I come now to the event which has 
rendered this record necessary. 


CHAPTER V 

THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT 

“rTIHE impressions left upon me by the tragic occur- 
rence I am about to narrate have, strangely 
A enough, given me a confused idea as to the 
exact date upon which it took place, but I am correct in 
saying that it was within a month of the agreement en- 
tered into between my wife and myself that we should live 
separate lives under the same roof. 

“ I expected to receive a challenge from M. Gabriel, a 
challenge which for the reason I have given — that I would 
not afford the world an opportunity of discussing my pri- 
vate affairs — I firmly resolved not to accept. To my sur- 
prise no such challenge reached me, and I indulged the 
hope that M. Gabriel had removed himself forever from 
us. It was not so. 

“ The night was wild and dark. The wind was sweep- 
ing round the house ; the rain was falling. I had resumed 
my old habits, and was awake in my study, in which I am 
now writing. I did no intelligent work during those sad 
days. If I forced myself to write, I invariably tore up 
the sheets when I read them with a clearer mind. My 


326 THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT 

studies afforded me neither profit nor relief. The occupa- 
tion which claimed me was that of brooding over the cir- 
cumstances attendant upon my wooing and my marriage. 
For ever brooding. Walking to and fro, dwelling upon 
each little detail of my intimacy with my girl-wife, and re- 
volving in my mind whether I could have prevented what 
had occurred — whether, if I had done this or that, I could 
have averted the misery in which our lives were wrapt. 
It was a profitless occupation, but I could not tear myself 
from it. There was a morbid fascination in it which held 
me fast. That it harrowed me, tortured me, made me 
smart and bleed, mattered not. It clung to me, and 
I to it. Thus do we hug our misery to our bosoms, 
and inflict upon ourselves the most intolerable suffer- 
ings. 

“ I strove to escape from it, to fix my mind upon some 
abstruse subject, upon some difficult study, but, like a 
demon to whom I had sold my soul, it would not be denied. 
There intruded always this one picture — the face of a 
baby-boy, mine, my dear son, lying asleep in his mother’s 
arms. Let me say here that I never harboured the 
thought of depriving my wife of this precious consola- 
tion, that never by the slightest effort have I endeavoured 
to estrange him from her. The love he bore to me — and 
I thank Heaven that he grew to love me — sprang from 
his own heart, which also must have been sorely perplexed 
and have endured great pain in the estrangement that 
existed between his parents. Well, this pretty baby-face 
always intruded itself — this soul which I had brought into 
life lay ever before me, weighted with myriad mysterious 
and strange suggestions. It might live to accomplish 
great and noble deeds — it might live to inspire to worthy 
deeds — it might become a saviour of men, a patriot, an 
emancipator. And but for me, it would never have been. 
Even the supreme tribulation of his parents’ lives might 
be productive of some great actions which would bring a 
blessing upon mankind. In that case it was good to 
suffer. 

“ After some time — not in those days, but later on — 
this thought became a consolation to me, although it 
troubled and perplexed me to think whether the birth of 


THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT 327 

a soul which was destined to shine as a star among men 
was altogether a matter of chance. 

“ A dark, stormy night. I created voices in the sweep- 
ing of the wind. They spoke to me in groans, in whis- 
pers, in loud shrieks. Was it fancy that inspired the wail, 
‘ To-night, to-night shall be your undoing ! ’ 

“ Midnight struck. I paced to and fro, listening to the 
voices of the wind. Presently another sound — a sound 
not created by my imagination — came to my ears. It was 
as though something heavy had fallen in the grounds. 
Perhaps a tree had been blown down. Or did it proceed 
from another cause, which warned me of danger ? 

“ I hastened immediately into the grounds. The sense 
of danger exhilarated me. I was in a mood which courted 
death as a boon. Willingly would I have gone out to 
meet it, as a certain cure for the anguish of my soul. 
Thus I believe it is sometimes with soldiers, and they be- 
come heroes by force of desperation. 

“ I could see nothing. I was about to return, when a 
moving object arrested my purpose. I sprang towards 
it — threw myself upon it. And in my arms I clasped the 
body of a man, just recovering consciousness from a 
physical hurt. 

“ I did not speak a word. I lifted the body in my arms 
— it had not yet sufficient strength to repel me — and 
carried it into my study. The moment the light of my 
lamps shone on the face of the man I recognised him. It 
was M. Gabriel. 

“ I laughed with savage delight as I placed him on a 
couch. 4 You villain — you villain ! ’ I muttered. ‘ Your 
last hour, or mine, has come. This night, one or both of 
us shall die ! ’ 

“ I drew my chair before the couch, so that his eyes, 
when he opened them, should rest upon my face. He was 
recovering consciousness, but very slowly. ‘ I could kill 
you here/ I said aloud, ‘ and no man would be the wiser. 
But I will first have speech with you.’ His eyelids 
quivered, opened, and we were gazing at each other face 
to face. The sight of me confounded him for a while, but 
presently he realised the position of affairs and he strove 
to rise. I thrust him back fiercely. 


328 


THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT 


“ ‘ Stay you there/ I said, ‘ until I learn your purpose. 
You have entered my house as a thief, and you have given 
your life into my hands. I told you, if you ever intruded 
yourself within these walls, that you would do so at your 
peril. What brought you here? Are you a would-be 
thief or murderer? You foul betrayer and coward! So 
— you climb walls in the dark in pursuance of your vil- 
lainous schemes ! Answer me — do you come here by ap- 
pointment, and are you devil enough to strive to make me 
believe that a pure and misguided girl would be weak 
enough to throw herself into your arms? Fill up the 
measure of your baseness, and declare as much/ 

“ ‘ No/ he replied ; ‘ I alone am culpable. No one knew 
of my coming — no one suspected it. I could not rest/ 

“ I interrupted him. ‘ After to-night/ I said gloomily, 
‘ you will rest quietly. Men such as you must be removed 
from the earth. You steal into my house, you thief and 
coward, with no regard for the fair fame of the woman 
you profess to love — reckless what infamy you cast upon 
her and of the life-long shame you would deliberately fling 
upon one who has been doubly betrayed. You have not 
the courage to suffer in silence, but you would proclaim 
to all the world that you are a martyr to love, the very 
name of which becomes degraded when placed in associa- 
tion with natures like yours. You belong to the class of 
miserable sentimentalists who bring ruin upon the un- 
happy women whom they entangle with their maudlin 
theories. Mischief enough have you accomplished — this 
night will put an end to your power to work further ill/ 

“ ‘ What do you intend to do with me? ’ he asked. 

“ ‘ I intend to kill you/ I replied ; ‘ not in cold blood — 
not as a murderer, but as an avenger. Stand up/ 

“ He obeyed me. His fall had stunned him for a time ; 
he was not otherwise injured. 

“ ‘ I will take no advantage of you/ I said. 4 Here is 
wine to give you a false courage. Drink, and prepare 
yourself for what is to come. As surely as you have de- 
livered yourself into my hands, so surely shall you die ! ” 


THE HIDDEN CRIME 


329 


CHAPTER VI 

THE HIDDEN CRIME 

TE drank the wine, not wisely or temperately as a 

1"" 1 I cool-headed man whose life was at stake would 

i JL have done, but hastily, feverishly, and with an 
air of desperation. 

You are a good fencer,’ I said, 4 the best among all 
the friends who visited me during the days of your 
treachery. You were proud of showing your skill, as you 
were of exhibiting every admirable quality with which you 
are gifted. Something of the mountebank in this.’ 

“ ‘ At least,’ he said, rallying his courage, ‘ do not insult 
me.’ 

“ ‘ Why not ? Have you not outraged what is most 
honourable and sacred? Here are rapiers ready to our 
hands.’ 

44 ‘ A duel ! ’ he cried. 4 Here, and now ? ’ 

“ 4 Yes,’ I replied, 4 a duel, here and now. There is no 
fear of interruption. The sound of clashing steel will not 
fall upon other ears than ours.’ 

44 4 It will not be a fair combat,’ he said. 4 You are no 
match for me with the rapier. Let me depart. Do not 
compel me to become your murderer.’ 

44 4 You will nevermore set foot outside these walls,’ I 
said ; 4 here you will find your grave.’ 

44 It was my firm belief. I saw him already lying dead 
at my feet. 

44 4 If I should kill you,’ he said, 4 how shall I escape? ’ 

44 4 As best you may,’ I replied. 4 You are an adept at 
climbing walls. If you kill me, what happens to you 
thereafter is scarcely likely to interest me. But do not 
allow that thought to trouble you. What will take place 
to-night is ordained ! ’ 

44 1 began to move the furniture from the centre of the 
room, so as to afford a clear space for the duel. The tone 
in which he next spoke convinced me that I had impressed 
him. Indeed, my words were uttered with the certainty of 


380 THE HIDDEN CRIME 

conviction, and a fear stole upon him that he had come to 
his death. 

“ ‘ I will not fight with you/ he said ; ‘ the duel you pro- 
pose is barbarous, and I decline to meet you unless wit- 
nesses are present/ 

“ ‘ So that we may openly involve -the fair name of a 
lady in our quarrel/ I retorted quietly. ‘No; that will not 
be. Before witnesses it is I who would decline to meet 
you. Are you a coward ? ’ 

“ ‘ It matters little what you call me/ he said, ‘ as no 
other person is near. You cannot force me to fight you/ 

“ ‘ I think I can/ I said, and I struck him in the face, 
and proceeded with my work. 

“ My back was towards him ; a loaded gun was hanging 
on the wall ; unperceived by me he unslung it, and fired at 
me. 

“ I did not know whether I was hit or not. Maddened 
by the cowardly act, I turned, and lifting him in the air, 
dashed him to the ground. His head struck against one 
of the legs of my writing-table ; he groaned but once, and 
then lay perfectly still. It was the work of a moment, and 
the end had come. He lay dead before me. 

“ I had no feeling of pity for him, and I was neither 
startled nor deeply moved. His punishment was a just 
punishment, and my honour was safe from the babble of 
idle and malicious tongues. All that devolved upon me 
now was to keep the events of this night from the knowl- 
edge of men. 

“ There was, however, one danger. A gun had been 
fired. The sound might have aroused my wife or some of 
the servants, in which case an explanation would have to 
be given. At any moment they might appear. What lay 
on the floor must not be seen by other eyes than mine. 

“ I dragged a cloth from a table and threw it over the 
body, and with as little noise as possible swiftly replaced 
the furniture in its original position. Then I sat on my 
chair and waited. For a few minutes I was in a state of 
great agitation, but after I had sat for an hour without 
being disturbed I knew that my secret was safe. 

“ I removed the cloth from the face of the dead man 
and gazed at it. Strange to say, the features wore an ex- 


331 


THE HIDDEN CRIME 

pression of peacefulness. Death must have been instan- 
taneous. Gradually, as I gazed upon the form of the man 
I had killed, the selfish contemplation in which I had been 
engaged during the last hour of suspense — a contempla- 
tion devoted solely to a consideration of the consequences 
of discovery, so far as I was concerned, and in which the 
fate of the dead man formed no part — became merged in 
the contemplation of the act itself apart from its earthly 
consequences. 

“ I had taken a human life. I, whose nature had been 
proverbially humane, was, in a direct sense of the word, a 
murderer. That the deed was done in a moment of passion 
was no excuse; a man is responsible for his acts. The 
blood I had shed shone in my eyes. 

“ What hopes, what yearnings, what ambitions, were 
here destroyed by me ! For, setting aside the unhappy 
sentiment which had conducted events to this end, M. 
Gabriel was a man of genius, of whose career high expec- 
tations had been formed. I had not only destroyed a 
human being, I had destroyed art. Would it have been 
better had I allowed myself to be killed? Were death 
preferable to a life weighed down by a crime such as 
mine? 

“ For a short time these reflections had sway over me, 
but presently I steadily argued them down. I would not 
allow them to unman me. This coward and traitor had 
met a just doom. 

“ What remained for me now to do was to complete the 
concealment. The body must be hidden. After to-night 
— unless chance or the hand of Providence led to its dis- 
covery — the lifeless clay at my feet must never more be 
seen. 

“ There was a part of my grounds seldom, if ever, in- 
truded upon by the servants — that portion in which, for 
the gratification of my wife, I had at the time of our mar- 
riage commenced improvements which had never been 
completed. There it was that my wife’s mother had met 
with the accident which resulted in her death. I thought 
of a pit deep enough for the concealment of the bodies of 
fifty men. Into this pit I would throw the body of 
M. Gabriel, and would cover it with earth and stones. 


332 THE HIDDEN CRIME 

The task accomplished, there would be little fear of dis- 
covery. 

“ First satisfying myself that all was quiet and still in 
the villa, and that I was not being watched, I raised the 
body of M. Gabriel in my arms. As I did so, a horror and 
loathing of myself took possession of me ; I shuddered in 
disgust ; the work I was performing seemed to be the work 
of a butcher. 

“ However, what I resolved to do was done. In the dead 
of night, with darkness surrounding me, with the rain 
beating upon me, and the accusing wind shrieking in my 
ears, I consigned to its last resting-place the body of the 
man I had killed. 

“ Years have passed since that night. My name has not 
been dragged into the light for scandal-mongers to make 
sport of. Open shame and derision have been avoided — 
but at what a price! From the day following that upon 
which I forbade M. Gabriel my house, not a single word 
was exchanged between my wife and myself. She sent 
for me before she died, but she knew she would be dead 
before I arrived. A fearful gloom settled upon our lives, 
and will cover me to my last hour. This domestic es- 
trangement, this mystery of silence between those whom 
he grew to' love and honour, weighed heavily upon my 
son Christian. His child’s soul must have suffered much ? 
and at times I have fancied I see in him the germs of a 
combination of sweetness and weakness which may lead 
to suffering. But suffer as he may, if honour be his guide 
I am content. I shall not live to see him as a man ; my 
days are numbered. 

“ In the time to come — in the light of a purer existence 
— I may learn whether the deed I have done is or is not a 
crime. 

“ But one thing is clear to me. Had it not been for my 
folly, shame would not have threatened me, misery would 
not have attended me, and I should not have taken a 
human life. The misery and the shame did not affect me 
alone ; they waited upon a young life and blighted its 
promise. It is I who am culpable, I who am responsible 
for what has occurred. It is impossible, without courting 
unhappiness, to divert the currents of being from their 


333 


FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 

natural channels : youth needs youth, is attracted to youth, 
seeks youth, as flowers seek the sun. Roses do not grow 
in ice. 

“ Mine, then, the sin — a sin too late to expiate. 

“ I would have my son marry when he is young, as in 
the course of nature he will love when he is young. It is 
the happier fate, because it is in accordance with natural 
laws. 

“ If he into whose hands these pages may fall can dis- 
cern a lesson applicable to himself in the events I have 
recorded, let him profit by them. If the circumstances of 
his life in any way resemble mine, I warn him to bear 
with wisdom and patience the penalty he has brought upon 
himself, and not to add, in the person of another being to 
whom he is bound and who is bound to him, to an unhap- 
piness — most probably a secret unhappiness — of his own 
creating. 

“And I ask him to consider well whether any good pur- 
pose will be served by dragging into the open day the 
particulars of a crime, the publishing of which cannot 
injure the dead or benefit the living. It cannot afford him 
any consolation to think, if my son be alive, that needless 
suffering will be brought to the door of the innocent. Let 
him, then, be merciful and pitiful.” 


CHAPTER VII 

FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 

T HUS abruptly the record closed. To the last 
written page there were several added, as though 
the writer had more to say, and intended to say 
it. But the pages were blank. The intention, if intention 
there were, had never been carried out. 

The reading of the record occupied the Advocate over 
an hour, and when he had finished, he sat gazing upon 
the manuscript. For a quarter of an hour he did not 
move. Then he rose — not quickly, as one would rise 
who was stirred by a sudden impulse, but slowly, with the 
air of a man who found a difficulty in arranging his 


334 FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 

thoughts. With uneven steps he paced the study, to and 
fro, to and fro, pausing occasionally to handle in an aim- 
less way a rare vase, which he turned about in his hands, 
and gazed at with vacant eyes. Occasionally, also, he 
paused before the manuscript and searched in its pages for 
words which his memory had not correctly retained. He 
did this with a consciousness which forced itself upon 
him, and which he vainly strove to ignore, that what he 
sought was applicable to himself. 

It was not compassion, it was not tenderness, it was not 
horror, that moved him thus strangely, for he was a man 
who had been but rarely, if ever, moved as he was at the 
present time. It was the curious and disquieting associa- 
tions between the dead man who had written and the liv- 
ing man who had read the record. And yet, although he 
could, if he had chosen, have reasoned this out, and have 
placed it mentally before him in parallel lines, his only 
distinct thought was to avoid the comparison. That he 
was unsuccessful in this did not tend to compose him. 

Upon a bracket lay a bronze, the model of a woman’s 
hand, from the life. A beautiful hand, slender but 
shapely. It reminded him of his wife. 

He took it from the bracket and examined it, and after 
a little while thus passed, the words came involuntarily 
from his lips : “ Perfect — but cold.” 

The spoken words annoyed him ; they were the evi- 
dence of a lack of self-control. He replaced the bronze 
hastily, and when he passed it again would not look at it. 

Suddenly he left the study, and went towards his wife’s 
rooms. He had not proceeded more than half a dozen 
yards before his purpose, whatever it might have been, 
was relinquished as swiftly as it had been formed. He 
retraced his steps, and lingered irresolutely at the door of 
the study. With an impatient movement of his head — it 
was the action of a man who wrestled with thought as he 
would have done with a palpable being — he once more 
proceeded in the direction of his wife’s apartments. 

At the commencement of the passage which led to the 
study was a lobby, opening from the principal entrance. A 
noble staircase in the centre of the lobby led to the rooms 
occupied by Christian Aimer and Pierre Lamont. On the 


FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 335 

same floor as the study, beyond the staircase, were his 
wife’s boudoir and private rooms. 

This part of the house was but dimly lighted ; one rose- 
lamp only was alight. On the landing above, where the 
staircase terminated, three lamps in a cluster were burn- 
ing, and shed a soft and clear light around. 

When he reached the lobby and was about to pass the 
staircase, the Advocate’s progress was arrested by the 
sound of voices which fell upon his ears. These voices 
proceeded from the top of the staircase. He looked up, 
and saw, standing close together, his wife and Christian 
Aimer. Instinctively he retreated into the deeper shad- 
ows, and stood there in silence with his eyes fixed upon 
the figures above him. 

His wife’s hand was resting on Aimer’s shoulder, and 
her fingers occasionally touched his hair. She was speak- 
ing almost in a whisper, and her face was bright and ani- 
mated. Aimer was replying to her in monosyllables, and 
even in the midst of the torture of this discovery, the Ad- 
vocate observed that the face of his friend wore a troubled 
expression. 

The Advocate remembered that his wife had wished 
him good-night before ten o’clock, and that when he made 
the observation that she was retiring early, she replied 
that she was so overpowered with fatigue that she could 
not keep her eyes open one minute longer. And here, 
nearly two hours after this statement, he found her con- 
versing clandestinely with his friend in undisguised gaiety 
of spirits ! 

Never had he seen her look so happy. There was a 
tender expression in her eyes as she gazed upon Christian 
Aimer which she had never bestowed upon him from the 
first days of their courtship. 

A grave, dignified courtship, in which each was studi- 
ously kind and courteous to the other; a courtship with- 
out romance, in which there was no spring. A bitter 
smile rested upon his lips as this remembrance impressed 
itself significantly upon him. 

He watched and waited, motionless as a statue. Mid- 
night struck, and still the couple on the staircase lingered. 
Presently, however, and manifestly on Aimer’s urging, 


336 FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 

Adelaide consented to leave him. Smilingly she offered 
him her hand, and held his for a longer time than friend- 
ship warranted. They parted ; he ascending to his room, 
she descending to hers. When she was at the foot of the 
staircase she looked up and threw a kiss to Aimer, and her 
face, with the light of the rose-lamp upon it, was inex- 
pressibly beautiful. The next minute the Advocate was 
alone. 

He listened for the shutting of their chamber-doors. So 
softly was this done both by his friend and his wife that it 
was difficult to catch the faint sound. He smiled again — 
a bitter smile of confirmation. It was in his legal mind a 
fatal item of evidence against them. 

Slowly he returned to his study, and the first act of 
which he was conscious was that of standing on a certain 
spot and saying audibly as he looked down : 

“ It was here M. Gabriel fell ! ” 

He knelt upon the carpet, and thought that on the 
boards beneath, even at this distance of time, stains of 
blood might be discerned, the blood of a treacherous 
friend. It was impossible for him to control the working 
of his mind ; impossible to dwell upon the train of thought 
it was necessary he should follow out before he could 
decide upon a line of action. One o’clock, two o’clock 
struck, and he was still in this condition. All he could 
think of was the fate of M. Gabriel, and over and over 
again he muttered : 

“ It was here he fell — it was here he fell ! ” 

There was a harmony in the storm which raged without. 
The peals of thunder, the lightning flashing through the 
windows, were in consonance with his mood. He knew 
that he was standing on the brink of a fatal precipice. 

“ Which would be best,” he asked mentally of himself, 
“ that lightning should destroy three beings in this un- 
happy house, or that the routine of a nine-days’ wonder 
should be allowed to take its course ? All that is wanting 
to complete the wreck would be some evidence to damn 
me in connection with Gautran and the unhappy girl he 
foully murdered.” 

e As if in answer to his thought, he heard a distinct tap- 
ping on one of his study windows. He hailed it with 


337 


FALSE WIFE, FALSE FRIEND 

eagerness ; anything in the shape of action was welcome 
to him. He stepped to the window, and drawing up the 
blind saw darkly the form of a man without. 

“ Whom do you seek ? ” he asked. 

“ You,” was the answer. 

“ Your mission must be an urgent one,” said the Advo- 
cate, throwing up the window. “ Is it murder or rob- 
bery?” 

“ Neither. Something of far greater importance.” 

“ Concerning me ? ” 

“ Most vitally concerning you.” 

“ Indeed. Then I should welcome you.” 

With strange recklessness he held out his hand to assist 
his visitor into the room. The man accepted the assist- 
ance, and climbing over the window-sill sprang into the 
study. He was bloody, and splashed from head to foot 
with mud. 

“ Have you a name ? ” inquired the Advocate. 

“ Naturally.” 

“ Favour me with it.” 

“ John Vanbrugh.” 


338 JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 


BOOK VII.— RETRIBUTION 


CHAPTER I 

JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 

STORMY night to seek you out,” said John Van- 
brugh, “ and to renew an old friendship ” 



“ Stop there,” interrupted the Advocate. “ I 


admit no idea of a renewal of friendship between us.” 

“ You reject my friendship? ” asked Vanbrugh, wiping 
the blood and dirt from his face. 

“ Distinctly.” 

“ So be it. Our interview shall be conducted without a 
thought of friendship, though some reference to the old 
days cannot be avoided. I make no apology for present- 
ing myself in this condition. Man can no more rule the 
storm than he can the circumstances of his life. I have 
run some distance through the rain, and I have been at- 
tacked and almost killed. You perceive that I am ex- 
hausted, yet you do not offer me wine. You have it, I 
know, in that snug cupboard there. May I help myself? 
Thank you. Ah, there’s a smack of youth in this liquor. 
It is life to one who has passed through such dangers as 
have encompassed me. You received my letter asking for 
an interview? I gave it myself into your hands on the 
last evening of the trial.” 

“ I received it.” 

“ Yet you were unwilling to accord me an interview.” ' 

“ I had no desire to meet you again.” 

“ It was ungrateful of you, for it is upon your own 
business — yours and no other man’s — that I wished to 
speak with you. It was cold work out on the hill yonder, 
watching the lights in your study window, watching for 


JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 339 

the simple waving of a handkerchief, which would mean 
infinitely more to you than to me, as you will presently 
confess. Dreary cold work, not likely to put a man like 
myself in an amiable mood. I am not on good terms with 
the world, as you may plainly perceive. I have had rough 
times since the days you deemed it no disgrace to shake 
hands with me. I have sunk very low by easy descents ; 
you have risen to a giddy height. I wonder whether you 
have ever feared the fall. . Men as great as you have met 
with such a misfortune. Things do not last for ever, Ed- 
ward — pardon me, it was a slip of the tongue.” 

“ Do you come to beg? ” 

“ No— for a reason. If I came on such an errand, I 
might spare myself the trouble.” 

“ Likely enough,” said the Advocate, who was too well 
acquainted with human nature not to be convinced, from 
Vanbrugh’s manner, that his was no idle visit. 

“ You were never renowned for your charities. And 
on the other hand I am poor, but I am not a beggar. I 
am frank enough to tell you I would prefer to steal. It is 
more independent, and not half so disgraceful. It may 
happen that the world would take an interest in a thief, 
but never in a beggar.” 

“ Is it to favour me with your philosophies that you pay 
me this visit? ” 

“ I should be the veriest dolt. No, I will air my 
opinions when I am rich.” 

“ You intend, poor as you confess yourself, to become 
rich?” 

“ With your help, old friend.” 

“ Not with my help. You will receive none from me.” 

“ You are mistaken. Forgive me for the contradiction, 
but I speak on sure ground. Ah, how I have heard you 
spoken of ! With what admiration and esteem ! Almost 
with awe by some. Your talents, of themselves, could not 
have won this universal eulogy ; it is your spotless char- 
acter that has set the seal upon your fame. There is not 
a stain upon it; you have no weaknesses, no blemishes; 
you are absolutely pure. Other men have something to 
conceal — some family difficulty, some domestic disgrace, 
some slip in the path of virtue, which, were it known, 


340 JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 


would turn the current against them. But against you 
there is not a breath; scandal has never soiled you. In 
this lies the strength of your position — in this lies its dan- 
ger. Let shame, with cause, point its finger at you — old 
friend, the result is unpleasant to contemplate. For when 
a man such as you falls, he does not fall gradually. He 
topples over suddenly, and to-day he is as low in the gutter 
as yesterday he was high in the clouds.” 

“ You have said enough. I do not care to listen to you 
further. The tone you assume is offensive to me — such 
as I would brook from no man. You can go the way you 
came.” 

And with a scornful gesture the Advocate pointed to the 
window. 

“ When I inform you which way I came,” said Van- 
brugh, with easy insolence, “ you will not be so ready to 
tell me to leave you before you learn the errand which 
brought me.” 

“ Which way, then, did you come ? ” asked the Advo- 
cate, in a tone of contempt. 

“ The way Gautran came — somewhat earlier than this, 
it is true, but not earlier than midnight.” 

The Advocate grasped the back of a chair; it was a 
slight action, but sufficient to show that he was taken off 
his guard. 

“ You know that? ” he said. 

“Aye, I know that, and also that you feasted him, and 
gave him money.” 

“ Are you accomplices, you two knaves ? ” 

“ If so, I have at present the best of the bargain. But 
your surmise is not made with shrewdness. I never set 
eyes on Gautran until after he was pronounced innocent 
of the murder of Madeline. On that night I — shall we 
say providentially? — made his acquaintance.” 

“ You have met him since then? ” 

“ Yes — this very night ; our interview was one never to 
be forgotten. Come, I have been frank with you ; I have 
used no disguises. I say to you honestly, the world has 
gone hard with me; I have known want and privation, 
and I am in a state of destitution. That is a condition of 
affairs sufficient not only to depress a man’s spirits, but to 


JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 341 

make him disgusted with the world and mankind. I have, 
however, still some capacity for enjoyment left in me, and 
I would give the world another trial, not as a penniless 
rogue, but as a gentleman.” 

“ Hard to accomplish,” observed the Advocate, with a 
cynical smile. 

“ Not with a full purse. No music like the jingling of 
gold, and the world will dance to the tune. Well, I pre- 
sent myself to you, and ask you, who are rich and can 
spare what will be the making of me, to hand me from 
your full store as much as will convert a poor devil into a 
respectable member of society.” 

“ I appreciate your confidence. I leave you to supply 
the answer.” 

“ You will give me nothing? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Mind — I do not ask it of your charity ; I ask it of 
your prudence. It will be worth your while.” 

“ That has to be proved.” 

“ Good. We have made a commencement. Your repu- 
tation is worth much — in sober truth as much as it has 
brought you. But I am not greedy. It lies at my mercy, 
and I shall be content with a share.” 

“ That is generous of you,” said the Advocate, who by 
this time had regained his composure ; “ but I warn you — 
my patience is beginning to be exhausted.” 

“ Only beginning ? That is well. I advise you to keep 
a tight rein over it, and to ask yourself whether it is likely 
— considering the difference of our positions — that I 
should be here talking in this bold tone unless I held a 
power over you ? 1 put it to you as a lawyer of eminence.” 

“ There is reason in what you say.” 

“ Let me see. What have I to sell ? The security of 
your reputation ? The power to prevent your name being 
uttered with horror? Your fame — your honour? Yes, 
I have quite that to dispose of, and as a man of business, 
which I never was until now, I recognise the importance 
of being precise. First — I have to sell my knowledge 
that, after midnight, you received Gautran in your study, 
that you treated him as a friend, and filled his pockets with 
gold. How much is that worth ? ” 


342 JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 

“Nothing. My word against his, against yours, 
against a hundred such as you and he.” 

“ You would deny it? ” 

“ Assuredly — to protect myself.” As he made this an- 
swer, it seemed to the Advocate as if the principle of 
honour by which his actions had been guided until within 
the last few days were slipping from him, and as if the 
vilest wretch that breathed had a right to call him his 
equal. 

“ We will pass that by,” said Vanbrugh, helping himself 
to wine. “ Really, your wine is exquisite. In some re- 
spects you are a man to be envied. It is worth much to 
a man not only to possess the best of everything the world 
can give, but to know that he has the means and the power 
to purchase it. With that consciousness within him, he 
walks with his head in the air. You used to be fond of 
discussing these niceties ; I had no taste for them. I left 
the deeper subtleties of life to those of thinner blood than 
mine. Pleasure was more in my way — and will be 
again.” 

“ You are wandering from the point,” said the Advo- 
cate. 

“ There is a meaning in everything I say ; I will clip my 
wings. Your word against a hundred men such as I and 
Gautran? I am afraid you are right. We are vagabonds 
— you are a gentleman. So, then, my knowledge of the 
fact that you treated Gautran as a friend after you had 
procured his acquittal is worth nothing. Admitted. But 
put that knowledge and that fact in connection with an- 
other and a sterner knowledge and fact — that you knew 
Gautran to be guilty of the murder. How then? Does 
it begin to assume a value? Your silence gives me hopes 
.that my visit will not be fruitless. Between men who 
once were equals and friends, and who, after a lapse of 
years, come together as we have come together now, can- 
dour is a useful attribute. Let us exercise it. I am not 
here on your account, nor do I hold you in such regard 
that I would trouble myself to move a finger to save your 
reputation. The master I am working for is Self ; the end 
I am working for is an easy life, a life of pleasure. This 
accomplished by your aid, I have nothing more to do with 


JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 3 43 

you or your affairs. The business is an unpleasant one, 
and I shall be glad to forget it. Refuse what I ask, and 
you will sink lower than I have ever sunk. There are 
actions which the world will forgive in the ignorant, but 
not in men of ripe intellect.” 

He paused and gazed negligently at the Advocate, who 
during the latter part of Vanbrugh’s speech, was consider- 
ing the dangers of his position. The secret of Gautran’s 
guilt belonged not alone to himself and Gautran ; this man 
Vanbrugh had been admitted into it, and he was an enemy 
more to be dreaded than Gautran. He saw his peril, and 
that he unconsciously acknowledged it to be imminent 
was proved by the thought which intruded itself — against 
his will, as it seemed — whether it would be wise to buy 
Vanbrugh off, to purchase his silence. 

“ It is easy,” he said, “ to invent tales. You and a 
dozen men, in conjunction with the monster Gautran — — ” 

“ As you say,” interrupted Vanbrugh, gently nodding 
his head, “ the monster Gautran. But why should you 
call him so unless you knew him to be guilty? Were you 
assured of his innocence, you would speak of him pity- 
ingly, as one undeservedly oppressed and persecuted. 

‘ The monster Gautran ! ’ Thank you. It is an admis- 
sion.” 

“ May invent,” continued the Advocate, not heed- 

ing the interruption, but impressed by its logic, “ may in- 
vent any horrible tale you please of any man you please. 
The difficulty will be to get the world to believe it.” 

“ Exactly. But in this case there is no difficulty, al- 
though the murderer be dead.” 

“ Gautran ! Dead ! ” exclaimed the Advocate, sur- 
prised out of himself. Gautran was dead ! Encompassed 
as he was by danger and treachery, the news was a relief 
to him. 

“ Yes, dead,” replied Vanbrugh, purposely assuming a 
careless tone. “ Did I not tell you before ? Singular that 
it should have escaped me. But I have so much to say, 
and in my brightest hours I was always losing the sequence 
of things.” 

“ And you,” said the Advocate, “ meeting this man by 
chance ” 


344 JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 


“ Pardon me. I asked you whether I should consider 
our meeting providential.” 

“ It matters not. You, meeting this man, come to me 
after his death, for the purpose of extracting money from 
me. You will fail.” 

“ I shall succeed.” 

“ You killed Gautran, and want money to escape.” 

“ No. He was killed by a higher agency, and I want 
no money to escape. You will hear to-morrow how he 
met his death, for all the towns and villages will be ring- 
ing with it. I continue. Say that Gautran at the point 
of death made a dying confession, on oath, not only of his 
guilt, but of your knowledge of it when you defended 
him — say that this confession exists in writing, duly 
signed. Would that paper, in conjunction with what I 
have already offered for sale, be worth your purchase? 
Take time to consider. You are dealing with a man in 
desperate circumstances, one who, if you drive him to it, 
will pull you down, high as you are. You will help me, 
old friend.” 

“ It may be. Have you possession of the paper you 
speak of ? ” 

“ I have. Would you like to hear it? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Vanbrugh moved, so that a table was between him and 
the Advocate, and taking Gautran’s confession from his 
pocket read in a clear voice : 

“ I, Gautran the woodman, lately tried for the murder 
of Madeline the flower-girl, being now at the point of 
death, and conscious that I have only a few minutes to live, 
and being also in the full possession of my reason, hereby 
make oath and swear : 

“ That being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial, I 
believed there was no escape from the doom I justly 
merited, for the reason that I was guilty of the murder. 

“ That some days before my trial was to take place, the 
Advocate who defended me voluntarily undertook to 
prove to my judges that I was innocent of the crime I 
committed. 

“ That with this full knowledge, he conducted my case 


JOHN VANBRUGH AND THE ADVOCATE 345 

with such ability that I was set free and pronounced inno- 
cent. 

“ That on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had 
struck, and when every person but himself in the House 
of White Shadows was asleep, I secretly visited him in 
his study, and remained with him for some time. 

“ That he gave me food and money, and bade me go 
my way. 

“ That I am ignorant of the motives which induced 
him, to whom I was a perfect stranger, to deliberately de- 
feat the ends of justice. 

“ That the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in 
the fact that I made a full confession to him. 

“ To which I solemnly swear, being about to appear be- 
fore a just God to answer for my crime. I pray for for- 
giveness and mercy. 

“ Signed, Gautran.” 

Without comment, John Vanbrugh folded the paper, 
and replaced it carefully in his pocket. 

“ The confession may be forged,” said the Advocate. 

“ Gautran’s signature,” said Vanbrugh, “ will refute 
such a charge. He could write only his name, and docu- 
ments can certainly be found bearing his signature, which 
can be compared with this.” 

“ With that document in your possession,” said the Ad- 
vocate, speaking very slowly, “ are you not afraid to be 
here with me — alone — knowing, if it state the truth, how 
much 1 have at stake ? ” 

“ Excellent ! ” exclaimed Vanbrugh. “ What likenesses 
there are in human nature, and how thin the line that 
divides the base from the noble! Afraid? No — for if 
you lay a hand upon me, for whom you are no more than 
a match, I will rouse the house and denounce you. Re- 
strain yourself and hear me out. I have that to say which 
will prove to you the necessity, if you have the slightest 
regard for your honour, of dealing handsomely with me. 
It relates to the girl whose murderer you set free — to 
Madeline the flower-girl and to yourself.” 


346 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 


CHAPTER II 

A TERRIBLE REVELATION 

W ITHOUT requesting permission, John Van- 
brugh filled his glass with wine, which he drank 
leisurely with his eyes fixed on the Advocate’s 
pale face the while. When he spoke, it did not escape the 
Advocate that he seemed to fling aside the flippancy of 
manner which had hitherto characterised him, and that 
his voice was unusually earnest. 

“ I do not ask you to excuse me,” he said, “ for recalling 
the memory of a time when you did not despise my com- 
panionship. It is necessary for my purpose. We were, 
indeed, more than companions — we were friends. What 
it was that made you consort with me is just now a mys- 
tery to me. The contrast in our characters may have 
tempted you. I, a careless, light-hearted fellow who 
loved to enjoy the hours; you, a serious, cold-hearted 
student, dreaming perhaps of the position you have at- 
tained. - It may be that you deliberately made a study of 
me to see what use you could make of my weakness. 
However it was, I lived in the present, you in the future. 
The case is now reversed, and it is I who live in the 
future. 

“ I have said you were cold-hearted, and I do not sup- 
pose you will trouble yourself to deny it. Such as you are 
formed to rise, while we impulsive, reckless devils are 
pretty sure to tumble in the mud. But I never had such 
a fall as you are threatened with, and scapegrace, vaga- 
bond as I am, I am thankful not to have on my conscience 
what you have on yours. 

“ Now for certain facts. 

“ I contemplated — no, I mistake, I never contemplated 
— I settled to go on a tour for a few weeks, and scramble 
through bits of France, Switzerland, and Italy. You will 
remember my mentioning it to you. Yes, I see in your 
face that you are following me, and I shall feel obliged by 
your correcting me if in my statement of facts I should 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 347 

happen to trip. The story I am telling needs no effort of 
the imagination to embellish it. It is in its bare aspect 
sufficiently ghastly and cruel. 

“ When I was about to start on my tour, you, of your 
own accord, offered to accompany me. You had been 
studying too hard, and a wise doctor recommended you to 
rest a while, if you did not care to have brain-fever, and 
also recommended you to seek new scenes in the company 
of a cheerful friend whose light spirits would be a good 
medicine for an overworked brain. You took the doc- 
tor’s advice, and you did me the honour to choose me 
for a companion. So we started on our little tour of 
pleasure. 

“ To shorten what I have to say I will not dwell upon 
the details of our jaunt, but I fix myself, with you, at Zer- 
matt, where we stayed for three weeks. The attraction 
— what was it? The green valleys — the grandeur of the 
scenery? No. A woman. More correctly speaking, 
two women. Young, lovely, inexperienced, innocent. 
Daughters of a peasant, whose cottage door was always 
open to us, and who was by no means unwilling to receive 
small presents of money from liberal gentlemen like our- 
selves. Again I slip details — the story becomes trite. 
We captivated the hearts of the simple peasant maidens, 
and amused ourselves with them. In me that was 
natural; it was my way. But in you this circumstance 
was something to be astonished at. For just as long as 
you remained at Zermatt you were a transformed being. 
I don’t think, until that time, I had ever heard you laugh 
heartily. Well, suddenly you disapeared ; getting up one 
morning, I found that my friend had deserted me. 

“ It was shabby behaviour, at the best. However, it 
did not seriously trouble me ; every man is his own mas- 
ter, and I think we were beginning to tire a little of each 
other. It was awkward, though, to be asked by one of 
our pretty peasant friends where my handsome friend had 
gone, and when he would return, and not be able to give 
a sensible answer. 

“ This girl, who had been in your presence always 
bright and joyous and happy, grew sad and quiet and 
anxious-looking in your absence, and appeared to have a 


348 A TERRIBLE REVELATION 

secret on her mind that was making her wretched. I 
stayed on at Zermatt for another month, and then I bade 
good-bye to my sweetheart, promising to come again in 
a year. I kept my promise, but when I asked for her in 
Zermatt I heard that she was dead, and that her sister and 
father had left the village, and had gone no one knew 
whither. 

“ It- will be as well for me here to remind you that dur- 
ing our stay in Zermatt we gave no home address, and 
that no one knew where we came from or where we lived. 
So prudent were we that we acted as if we were ashamed 
of our names. 

Three years afterwards in another part of Switzerland 
I met the woman to whom you had made love ; she had 
lost her father, but was not without a companion. She 
had a little daughter — your child ! ” 

“ A lie ! ” said the Advocate, with difficulty controlling 
himself ; “ a monstrous fabrication ! ” 

“ A solemn truth,” replied Vanbrugh, “ verified by the 
mother’s oath, and the certificate of birth. To dispute it 
will be a waste of breath and time. Hear me to the end. 
The mother had but one anxiety- — to forget you and your 
treachery, and to be able to live so that her shame should 
be concealed. To accomplish this it was necessary that 
she should live among strangers, and it was for this rea- 
son she had left her native village. She asked me about 
you, and I — well, I played your game. I told her you 
had gone to< a distant part of the world, and that I knew 
nothing of you. We were still friends, you and I, al- 
though our friendship was cooling. When I next saw 
you I had it in my mind to relate the circumstance to you ; 
but you will remember that just at that time you took it 
into your head to put an end to our intimacy. We had a 
few words, I think, and you were pleased to tell me that 
you disapproved of my habits of life, and that you intended 
we should henceforth be strangers. I was not in an 
amiable mood when I left you, and I resolved, on the first 
opportunity, to seek the woman you had brought to shame, 
and advise her to take such steps against you as would 
bring disgrace to your door. It would be paying you in 
your own coin, I thought. However, good fortune stood 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 349 

your friend at that time. My own difficulties or pleasures, 
or both combined, claimed my attention, and occupied me 
for many months, and when next I went to the village in 
which I had last seen your peasant sweetheart and your 
child, they were not to be found. I made inquiries, but 
could learn nothing of them, so I gave it up as a bad job, 
and forgot all about the matter. Since then very many 
years have passed, and I sank and sank, and you rose and 
rose. We did not meet again ; but I confess, when I used 
to read accounts of your triumphs and your rising fame, 
that I would not have neglected an opportunity to have 
done you an ill turn had it been in my power. I was at 
the lowest ebb, everything was against me, and I was won- 
dering how I should manage to extricate myself from the 
desperate position into which bad luck had driven me, 
when, not many weeks since, I met in the streets of 
Geneva two women. They were hawking nosegays, and 
the moment I set eyes upon the elder of these women I 
recognised in her your old sweetheart from Zermatt. You 
appear to be faint. Shall I pause a while before I 
continue ? ” 

“ No,” said the Advocate, and he drank with feverish 
eagerness two glasses of wine ; “ go on to the end.” 

“ It was your sweetheart from Zermatt, and no other. 
And the younger of these women, one of the loveliest 
creatures I ever beheld, was known as Madeline the 
flower-girl.” 

The Advocate, with a sudden movement, turned his 
chair, so that his face was hidden from Vanbrugh. 

“ They were poor — and I was poor. If what I sus- 
pected, when I gazed at Madeline, was correct, I saw not 
only an opportunity for revenge upon you, but a certainty 
of being able to obtain money from you. The secret to 
such a man as you, married to a young and beautiful 
woman, was worth a fair sum, which I resolved should be 
divided between Pauline — that was the name adopted by 
the mother of your child — and myself. You cannot ac- 
cuse me of a want of frankness. I discovered where 
they lived — I had secret speech with Pauline. My sus- 
picion was no longer a suspicion — it was a fact. Made- 
line the flower-girl was your daughter,” 


350 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 


He paused, but the Advocate made no movement, and 
did not speak. 

“ How/’ continued Vanbrugh, “ to turn that fact to ad- 
vantage? How, and in what way, to make it worth a 
sum sufficiently large to satisfy me ? That was what now 
occupied my thoughts. Madeline and her mother were 
even poorer than I supposed, and from Pauline’s lips did 
I hear how anxious she was to remove her daughter from 
the temptations by which she was surrounded. In deal- 
ing with you, I knew it was necessary to be well prepared. 
You are a powerful antagonist to cope with, and one must 
have sure cards in his hand to have even a chance of win- 
ning any game he is playing with such a man as yourself. 
Pauline and I spoke frequently together, and gradually I 
unfolded to her the plan I had resolved upon. Without 
disclosing your name I told her sufficiently to convince her 
that, by my aid, she might obtain a sum of money from 
the man who had wronged her which would enable her to 
place herself and her daughter in a safer position — a posi- 
tion in which a girl as beautiful as Madeline would almost 
certainly meet with a lover of good social position whom 
she would marry and with whom she would lead a happy 
life. Thus would she escape the snare into which she 
herself fell when she met you. This was the mother’s 
dream. Satisfied that I could guide her to this end, 
Pauline signed an agreement, which is in my possession, 
by which she bound herself to pay me half the money she 
obtained from you in compensation for your wrong. 
Only one thing was to remain untouched by her and me — 
a sum which I resolved to obtain from you as a marriage 
portion for your daughter. Probably, under other cir- 
cumstances, you would not have given me credit for so 
much consideration, but viewed in the light of the posi- 
tion in which you are placed, you may believe me. If you 
doubt it, I can show you the clause in black and white. 
This being settled between Pauline and me, I told her who 
you were — how rich you were, how famous you had 
grown, and how that you had lately married a young and 
beautiful woman. The affairs of a man as eminent as 
yourself are public property, and the newspapers delight 
in recording every particular, be it ever so trivial, con- 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 


351 


nected with the lives of men of your rank. It was then 
necessary to ascertain what proof we held that you were 
the father of Madeline. Our visit to Zermatt could be 
proved — her oath and mine, in connection with dates, 
would suffice. Then there would, in all likelihood, be 
living in Zermatt men and women whose testimony would 
be valuable. The great point was the birth of the child 
and the date, and to my discomfiture I learnt that Pauline 
had lost the certificate of her daughter’s birth. But the 
record existed elsewhere, and it was to obtain a copy of 
this record, and to collect other evidence, that Pauline left 
her daughter. Her mission was a secret one, necessarily, 
and thus no person, not even Madeline, had any knowl- 
edge of its purport. What, now, remains to be told? 
Nothing that you do not know — except that when Pauline 
left her daughter for a few weeks, it was arranged that she 
and I should meet in Geneva on a certain date, to com- 
mence our plan of operations, and that I, having business 
elsewhere, was a couple of hundred miles away when Gau- 
tran murdered your hapless child. I arrived in Geneva 
on the last day of Gautran’s trial; and on that evening, 
as you came out of the court-house, I placed in your hands 
the letter asking you to give me an interview. I will say 
nothing of my feelings when I heard that you had success- 
fully defended, and had set free, the murderer of your 
child. What I had to look after was myself and my own 
interest. And now you, who at the beginning of this 
interview rejected a renewal of the old friendship which 
existed between us, may probably inwardly acknowledge 
that had you accepted the hand I offered you, it is not I 
who would have been the gainer.” 

Again he paused, and again, neither by word or move- 
ment, did the Advocate break the silence. 

“ It will be as well,” presently said Vanbrugh, “ to re- 
capitulate what I have to sell. First, the fact that you, a 
man of spotless character — so believed — deliberately be- 
trayed a simple innocent girl, and then deserted her. In- 
conceivable, the world would say, in such a man, unless 
the proofs were incontestable. The proofs are incon- 
testable. Next, the birth of your child, and your brutal — • 
pardon me, there is no other word to express it, and it is 


352 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 


one which would be freely used — negligence to ascertain 
whether your conduct had brought open shame and ruin 
upon the girl you betrayed. Next, the knowledge of the 
life of poverty and suffering led by the mother and the 
child, while you were in the possession of great wealth. 
Next, the murder of your child by a man whose name is 
uttered with execration. Next, your voluntary espousal of 
his cause, and your successful defence of a monster whom 
all men knew to be guilty of the foul crime. Next, your 
knowledge, at the time you defended him, that he was 
guilty of the murder of your own child. Next, in cor- 
roboration of this knowledge, the dying declaration of 
Gautran, solemnly sworn to and signed by him. A strong 
hand. No stronger has ever been held by any man's 
enemy, and until you come to my terms, I am your enemy. 
If you refuse to purchase of me what I have to sell — the 
documents in my possession, and my sacred silence to the 
last day of my life upon the matters which affect you — 
and for such a sum as will make my future an easy one, 
I give you my word I will use my power against you, and 
will drag you down from the height upon which you stand. 
I cannot speak in more distinct terms. You can rescue 
me from poverty, I can rescue you from ignominy." 

The Advocate turned his face to Vanbrugh, who saw 
that, in the few minutes during which it had been hidden 
from his sight, it had assumed a hue of deadly whiteness. 
All the sternness had departed from it, and the cold, pierc- 
ing eyes wavered as they looked first at Vanbrugh, then 
at the objects in the study. It was as though the Advo- 
cate were gazing, for the first time, upon the familiar 
things by which he was surrounded. Strange to say, this 
change in him seemed to make him more human — seemed 
to declare, “ Stern and cold-hearted as I have appeared to 
the world, I am susceptible to tenderness." The mask 
had fallen from his face, and he stood now revealed — a 
man with human passions and human weaknesses, to 
whom a fatal sin in his younger days had brought a retri- 
bution as awful as it was ever the lot of a human being to 
suffer. There was something pitiable in this new present- 
ment of a strong, earnest, self-confident nature, and even 
Vanbrugh was touched by it. 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 353 

During the last half-hour the full force of the storm 
had burst over the House of White Shadows. The rain 
poured down with terrific power, and the thunder shook 
the building to its foundations. The Advocate listened 
with a singular and curious intentness to the terrible 
sounds, and when Vanbrugh remarked, “ A fearful night,” 
he smiled in reply. But it was the smile of a man whose 
heart was tortured to the extreme limits of human 
endurance. 

Once again he filled a glass with wine, and raised it to 
his mouth, but as the liquor touched his lips, he shud- 
dered, and holding the glass upright in his hand, he turned 
it slowly over and poured it on the ground ; then, 
with much gentleness, he replaced the glass upon the 
table. 

“ What has become of the woman you speak of as 
Pauline ? ” he asked. His very voice was changed. It 
was such as would proceed from one who had been pros- 
trated by long and almost mortal sickness. 

“ I do not know,” replied Vanbrugh. “ I have neither 
seen nor heard from her since the day before she left her 
daughter.” 

“ Say that I was disposed,” said the Advocate, speak- 
ing very slowly, and pausing occasionally, as though he 
was apprehensive that he would lose control of speech, 
“ to purchase your silence, do you think I should be safe 
in the event of her appearing on the scene? Would not 
her despair urge her to seek revenge upon the man who 
betrayed and deserted her, and who set her daughter’s 
murderer free? ” 

“ It might be so — but at all events she would be igno- 
rant of your knowledge of Gautran’s guilt. This dan- 
ger at least would be averted. The secret is ours at 
present, and ours only.” 

“ True. You believe that I knew Gautran to be guilty 
when I defended him ? ” 

“ I am forced to believe it. Explain, otherwise, why 
you permitted him to visit you secretly in the dead of 
night, and why you filled his pockets with gold.” 

“ It cannot be explained. Yet what motive could I 
have had in setting him free ? ” 


354 


A TERRIBLE REVELATION 


“ It is not for me to say. What I know, I know. I 
pretend to nothing further.” 

“ Do you suppose I care for money ? ” As the Advo- 
cate asked the question, he opened a drawer in the escri- 
toire, and produced a roll of notes. “ Take them ; they 
are yours. But I do not purchase your silence with them. 
I give the money to you as a gift.” 

“ And I thank you for it. But I must have more.” 

“ Wait — wait. This story of yours has yet to be con- 
cluded.” 

“ Is it my fancy,” said Vanbrugh, “ or is it a real sound 
I hear ? The ringing of a bell — and now, a beating at the 
gates without, and a man’s voice calling loudly ? ” 

Without hesitation, the Advocate went from his study 
into the grounds. The fury of the storm made it diffi- 
cult for him to keep his feet, but he succeeded in reaching 
the gate and opening it. A hand grasped his, and a man 
clung to him for support. The Advocate could not see 
the face of his visitor, nor, although he heard a voice 
speaking to him, did the words of the answer fall upon 
his ears. Staggering blindly through the grounds, they 
arrived at the door of the villa, and stumbled into the 
passage. There, by the aid of the rose lamp which hung 
in the hall, he distinguished the features of his visitor. It 
was Father Capel. 

“ Have you come to see me ? ” asked the Advocate, “ or 
are you seeking shelter from the storm ? ” 

“ I have come to see you,” replied Father Capel. “ I 
hardly hoped to find you up, but perceived lights in your 
study windows, and they gave me confidence to make the 
attempt to speak with you. I have been beating at the 
gates for fully half an hour.” 

He spoke in his usual gentle tones, and gazed at the 
Advocate’s white face with a look of kindly and pitying 
penetration. 

“ You are wet to the skin,” said the Advocate. “ I 
must find a change of clothing for you.” 

“ No, my son,” said the priest ; “ I need none. It is 
not the storm without I dread — it is the storm within.” 
As though desirous this remark should sink into the Ad- 
vocate’s heart, he paused a few moments before he spoke 


PAULINE 


355 


again. “ I fear this storm of Nature will do much harm. 
Trees are being uprooted and buildings thrown down. 
There is danger of a flood which may devastate the vil- 
lage, and bring misery to the poor. But there is a gra- 
cious God above us ” — he looked up reverently — “ and if 
a man’s conscience is clear, all is well.” 

“ There is a significance in the words you utter,” said 
the Advocate, conducting the priest to his study, “ which 
impresses me. Your mission is an important one.” 

“ Most important ; it concerns the soul, not the body.” 

“ A friend of mine,” said the Advocate, pointing to Van- 
brugh, who was standing when they entered, “ who has 
visited me to-night for the first time for many years, on a 
mission as grave as yours. It was he who heard your 
voice at the gates.” 

Father Capel inclined his head to Vanbrugh, who re- 
turned the courtesy. 

“ I wish to confer with you privately,” said the priest. 
“ It will be best that we should be alone.” 

“ Nay,” said the Advocate, “ you may speak freely in 
his presence. I have but one secret from him and all men. 
I beg you to proceed.” 


CHAPTER III 

PAULINE 

“T HAVE no choice but to obey you,” said Father 
I Capel, “ for time presses, and a life is hanging in 
1 the balance. I should have been here before had 
it not been that my duty called me most awfully and sud- 
denly to a man who has been smitten to death by the hand 
of God. The man you defended — Gautran, charged with 
the murder of an innocent girl — is dead. Of him I may 
not speak at present. Death-bed confessions are sacred, 
and apart from that, not even in the presence of your 
dearest friend can I say one further word concerning the 
sinner whose soul is now before its Creator. I came to 
you from a dying woman, who is known by the name of 
Pauline.” 


356 PAULINE 

Both Vanbrugh and the Advocate started at the men- 
tion of the name. 

“ Fate is merciful,” said the Advocate in a low tone ; 
“ its blows are sharp and swift.” 

“ Before I left her I promised to bring you to her to- 
morrow,” continued the priest, “ but Providence, which 
directed me to Gautran in his dying moments, impels me 
to break that promise. She may die before to-morrow, 
and she has that to say which vitally concerns you, and 
which you must hear, if she has strength enough to speak. 
I ask you to come with me to her without a moment’s de- 
lay, through this storm, which has been sent as a visitation 
for human crime.” 

“ I am ready to accompany you,” said the Advocate. 

“ And I,” said Vanbrugh. 

“ No,” said the priest, “ only he and I. Who you are I 
do not seek to know, but you cannot accompany us.” 

“Remain here,” said the Advocate to Vanbrugh; 
“ when I return I will hide nothing from you. Now, 
Father Capel.” 

It was not possible for them to engage in conversation. 
The roaring of the wind prevented a word from being 
heard. For mutual safety they clasped hands and pro- 
ceeded on their way. They encountered many dangers, 
but escaped them. Torrents of water poured down from 
the ranges — great branches snapped from the trees and 
fell across their path — the valleys were in places knee- 
deep in water — and occasionally they fancied they heard 
cries of human distress in the distance. If the priest had 
not been perfectly familiar with the locality, they would 
not have arrived at their destination, but he guided his 
companion through the storm, and they stood at length 
before the cottage in which Pauline lay. 

Father Capel lifted the latch, and pulled the Advocate 
after him into the room. 

There were but two apartments in the cottage. Pauline 
lay in the room at the back. In a corner of the room in 
which they found themselves a man lay asleep ; his wife 
was sitting in a chair, watching and waiting. She rose 
wearily as the priest and the Advocate entered. 

“ I am glad you have come, father,” she said, “ she has 


PAULINE 


357 


been very restless, and once she gave a shriek, like a death- 
shriek, which curdled my blood.' She woke and fright- 
ened my child.” 

She pointed to a baby-girl, scarcely eighteen months 
old, who was lying by her father with her eyes wide open. 
The child, startled by the entrance of strangers, ran to her 
mother, who took her on her lap, saying petulantly, 
“ There, there — be quiet. The gentlemen won’t hurt you.” 

“ Is Pauline awake now? ” asked Father Capel. 

The woman went to the inner roorrt and returned. 
“ She is sleeping,” she said, “ and is very quiet.” 

Father Capel beckoned to the Advocate, who followed 
him to the bedside of the dying woman. She lay so still 
that the priest lowered his head to hers to ascertain 
whether she was breathing. 

“ Life appears to be ebbing away,” he whispered to the 
Advocate ; “ she may die in her sleep.” 

Quiet as she was, there was no peace in her face ; an 
expression of exquisite suffering rested on it. The sign 
of suffering, denoting how sorely her heart had been 
wrung, caused the Advocate’s lips to quiver. 

“ It is I who have brought her to this,” he thought. 
“ But for me she would not be lying in a dying state be- 
fore me.” 

He was tortured not only by remorse, but by a terror of 
himself. 

Notwithstanding that so many years had passed since 
he last gazed upon her, she was not so much changed that 
he did not recognise in her the blooming peasant girl of 
Zermatt. Since then he had won honour and renown and 
the admiration and esteem of men ; the best that life could 
offer was his, or had been his until the fatal day upon 
which he resolved to undertake the defence of Gautran. 
And now — how stood the account? He was the accom- 
plice of the murderer of his own child — the mother of his 
child was dying in suffering — his wife was false to him — 
his one friend had betrayed him. The monument of 
greatness he had raised had crumbled away, and in a very 
little while the world would know him for what he was. 
His bitterest enemy could not have held him in deeper de- 
spisal than he held himself. 


358 


PAULINE 


“You recognise her?” said the priest. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And her child, Madeline, was yours ? ” 

“I am fain to believe it,” said the Advocate ; “ but the 
proof is not too clear.” 

“ The proof is there,” said the priest, pointing to 
Pauline ; “ she has sworn it. Do you think — knowing that 
death’s door is open for her to enter — knowing that her 
child, the only being she loved on earth, is waiting for her 
in the eternal land — that she would, by swearing falsely, 
and with no end in view that could possibly benefit her- 
self, imperil the salvation of her soul? It is opposed to 
human reason.” 

“ It is. I am forced to believe what I would give my 
life to know was false.” 

“ Unhappy man ! Unhappy man ! ” said the priest, sink- 
ing on his knees. “ I will pray for you, and for the 
woman whose life you blighted.” 

The Advocate did not join the priest in prayer. His 
stern sense of justice restrained him. The punishment 
he had brought upon himself he would bear as best he 
might, and he would not inflict upon himself the shameful 
humiliation of striving to believe that, by prayers and 
tears, he could suddenly atone for a crime as terrible as 
that of which he was guilty. 

“ Father Capel,” he said, when the priest rose from his 
knees, “ from what you have said, I gather that the man 
Gautran made confession to you before he died. I do not 
seek to know what that confession was, but with absolute 
certainty I can divine its nature. The man you saw in 
my study brought to me Gautran’s dying declaration, 
signed by Gautran himself, which charges me with a crime 
so horrible that, were I guilty of it, laden as I am with the 
consequences of a sin which I do not repudiate, I should 
deserve the worst punishment. Are you aware of the 
existence of this document ? ” 

“ I hear of its existence now for the first time,” replied 
the priest. “ When I left the bedside of this unhappy 
woman, and while I was wending my way home through 
the storm, I heard cries and screams for help on a hill 
near the House of White Shadows, as though two men 


PAULINE 


359 


were engaged in a deadly struggle. I proceeded in the 
direction of the conflict, and discovered only Gautran, who 
had been crushed to the earth by the falling of a tree which 
had been split by the storm. He admitted that he and an- 
other man were fighting, and that the design was murder. 
I made search, both then and afterwards, for the other 
man, but did not succeed in finding him. I left Gautran 
for the purpose of obtaining assistance to extricate him, 
for the tree had fallen across his body, and he could not 
move. When I returned he was dead, and some gold 
which he had askdd me to take from his pocket was gone ; 
an indication that, during my absence, human hands had 
been busy about him. If Gautran’s dying declaration be 
authentic, it must have been obtained while I was away to 
seek for assistance. ,, 

“ I can piece the circumstances/’ said the Advocate. 
“ The man you saw in my study was the man who was 
engaged in the struggle with Gautran. It was he who ob- 
tained the confession, and he who stole the gold. In that 
confession I am charged with undertaking the defence of 
Gautran with the knowledge that he was guilty. It is not 
true. When I defended him I believed him to be innocent ; 
and if he made a similar declaration to you, he has gone 
to his account with a black lie upon his soul. That will 
not clear me, I know, and I do not mention it to you for 
the purpose of exciting your pity for me. It is simply be- 
cause it is just that you should hear my denial of the 
charge ; and it is also just that you should hear something 
more. Up to the hour of Gautrans acquittal I believed 
him, degraded and vile as he was, to be innocent of the 
murder ; but that night, as I was walking to the House of 
White Shadows, I met Gautran, who, in the darkness, sup- 
posing me to be a stranger, would have robbed me, and 
probably taken my life. I made myself known to him, 
and he, overcome with terror at the imaginary shadow of 
his victim which his remorse and ignorance had conjured 
up, voluntarily confessed to me that he was guilty. My 
error — call it by what strange name you will — dated from 
that moment. Knowing that the public voice was against 
me, I had not the honesty to take the right course. But if 
I,” he added, with a gloomy recollection of his wife and 


360 


PAULINE 


friend, “ had not by my own act rendered valueless the 
fruits of a life of earnest endeavour, it would have been 
done for me by those in whom I placed a sacred trust.” 

For several hours Father Capel and the Advocate re- 
mained by the bedside of Pauline, who lay unconscious, as 
if indeed, as the priest had said, life was ebbing away in her 
sleep. The storm continued and increased in intensity, 
and had it not been that the little hut which sheltered 
them was protected by the position in which it stood, it 
would have been swept away by the wind. From time to 
time the peasant gave them particulars of the devastation 
created by the floods, which were rushing in torrents from 
every hill, but their duty chained them to the bedside of 
Pauline. An hour before noon she opened her eyes, and 
they rested upon the face of the Advocate. 

“ You have come,” she sighed. 

He knelt by the bed, and addressed her, but it was with 
difficulty he caught the words she spoke. Death was very 
near. 

“ Was Madeline my daughter? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” answered Pauline, “ as I am about to appear 
before my God ! ” 

The effort exhausted her, and she lay still for many min- 
utes. Then her hand feebly sought her pillow, and the 
Advocate, perceiving that she wished to obtain something 
from under it, searched and found a small packet. He 
knew immediately, when she motioned that she desired 
him to retain it, that it contained the certificate of 
his daughter’s birth. The priest prayed audibly for the 
departing soul. Pauline’s lips moved; the Advocate 
placed his ear close. She breathed the words : 

“We shall meet again soon ! Pray for forgiveness ! ” 

Then death claimed her, and her earthly sorrows were 
ended. 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 


361 


CHAPTER IV 

ONWARD TO DEATH 

I ATE in the afternoon the Advocate was stumbling, 
almost blindly, through the tempest towards the 
_J House of White Shadows. Father Capel had 
striven in vain to dissuade him from making the attempt to 
reach the villa. 

“ There is safety only in the sheltered heights,” said the 
priest. “ By this time the valleys are submerged, and the 
dwellings therein are being swept away. Ah me — ah me ! 
how many of my poor are ruined ; how many dead ! Not 
in my experience have I seen a storm as terrible as this. 
It is sent as a warning and a punishment. Only the 
strongest houses in the villages that lie in the valleys will 
be able to withstand its fury. Be persuaded, and remain 
here until its force is spent.” 

He spoke to one who was deaf to reason. It seemed to 
the Advocate as though the end of his life had come, as 
though his hold upon the world might at any moment be 
sapped ; but while he yet lived there was before him a task 
which it was incumbent upon him to perform. Ifc was 
imperative that he should have speech with his wife and 
Christian Aimer. 

“ I have work to do,” he said to the priest, “ and it 
must be done to-day.” 

An unaccustomed note in his voice caused Father Capel 
to regard him with even a more serious attention than he 
had hitherto bestowed upon him. 

“ There are men,” said the priest, “ who, when sudden 
misfortune overtakes them, adopt a desperate expedient 
to put an end to all worldly trouble, and thus add sin to 
sin.” 

“ Have no fear for me,” said the Advocate. “I am not 
contemplating suicide. What fate has in store for me I 
will meet without repining. You caution me against the 
storm, yet I perceive you yourself are preparing to face 

it.” 


362 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 


“ I go to my duty,” said the priest. 

“ And I to mine,” rejoined the Advocate. 

Thus they parted, each going his separate way. 

The Advocate had not calculated the difficulties he was 
to encounter ; his progress was slow, and he had to make 
wide detours on the road, and frequently to retrace his 
steps for a considerable distance, in order to escape being 
swept to death by the floods. From the ranges all around 
the village in which the House of White Shadows was sit- 
uated the water was pouring in torrents, which swirled 
furiously through the lower heights, carrying almost cer- 
tain destruction to those who had not already availed 
themselves of the chances of escape. Terrific as was the 
tempest, he took no heed of it. It was not the storm of 
Nature, but the storm within his soul which absorbed him. 
He met villagers on the road flying for safety. With ter- 
ror-struck movements they hurried past, men, women, 
and children, uttering cries of alarm at the visitation. 
Now and then one and another called upon him to turn 
back. 

“ If you proceed,” they said, “ you will be engulfed in 
the rapids. Turn back if you wish to live.” 

He did not answer them, but doggedly pursued his way. 

“ My punishment has come,” he thought. “ I have no 
wish to live, nor do I desire to outlast this day.” 

Once only, of his own prompting, did he pause. A 
woman, with little children clinging to her, passed him, 
sobbing bitterly. His eyes happening to light upon her 
face, he saw in it some likeness to the peasant girl whom 
in years gone by he had betrayed. The likeness might or 
might not have been there, but it existed certainly in his 
fancy. He stopped and questioned her, and learned that 
she had been utterly ruined by the storm, her cottage de- 
stroyed, her small savings lost, and all her hopes blasted. 
He emptied his pockets of money, and gave her what val- 
uables he had about him. 

“ Sell them,” he said ; “ they will help to purchase you 
a new home.” 

She called down blessings on his head. 

“If she knew me for what I am,” he muttered as he left 
her, “ she would curse me.” 


363 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 

On and on he struggled and seemed to make no prog- 
ress. The afternoon was waning, and the clouds were 
growing blacker and thicker, when he saw a man stag- 
gering towards him. He was about to put a question to 
him respecting the locality of the House of White Shad- 
ows — his course had been so devious that he scarcely 
knew in what direction it lay — when a closer approach to 
the man showed him to be no other than John Van- 
brugh. 

“Ah ! ” cried Vanbrugh, seizing the Advocate’s arm, 
and thus arresting his steps, “ I feared we had lost you. A 
fine time I have had of it down in your villa yonder ! Had 
it not been for the storm, I should have been bundled 
before a magistrate on a charge of interloping ; but every- 
body had enough to do to look after himself. It was a 
case of the devil take the hindmost. A scurvy trick, 
though, of yours, to desert a comrade ; still, for my sake, I 
am glad to see you in the land of the living.” 

“ Have you come straight from the villa ? ” asked the 
Advocate. 

“ Straight ! ” cried Vanbrugh with a derisive laugh. 
“ I defy the soberest saint to walk straight for fifty yards 
in such a hurricane. Three bottles of wine would not 
make me so unsteady as this cursed wind — enough to stop 
one’s breath for good or ill. What! you are not going 
on?” 

“ I am. What should hinder me? ” 

“ Some small love of life — a trivial but human senti- 
ment. There is no one in your house. It is by this time 
deserted by all but the rats.” 

“ My wife ” 

“ Was the last to leave, with a friend of yours, Christian 
Aimer by name. He and I had some words together. Let 
me tell you. I happened to drop a remark concerning you 
which he considered disparaging, and had I been guilty of 
all the cardinal sins he could not have been more angered. 
A true friend — but probably he does not know what I 
know. Well for you that I did not enlighten him. You 
will meet them a little lower down on the road, but I ad- 
vise you not to go too far. The valleys are rivers, carry- 
ing everything, headlong, in their course.” 


364 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 


“ There was* an old lawyer in the house. Do you know 
what has become of him ? ” 

“ I saw him perched on the back of a fool, and by their 
side a girl with the sweetest face, and an old woman I 
should take to be her grandmother.” 

“ Farewell,” said the Advocate, wrenching himself 
free. “ Should we meet again I will pay you for your 
friendly services.” 

“ Well said,” replied Vanbrugh. “ I am content. No 
man ever knew you to be false to your word. A woman 
perhaps — but that lies in the past. Ah, what a storm ! It 
is as though the end of the world had come.” 

“To those whose minutes are numbered,” said the Ad- 
vocate between his set teeth, “ the end of the world has 
, come. Farewell once more.” 

“ Farewell then,” cried Vanbrugh, proceeding onward. 
“ For my sake be careful of yourself. If this be not the 
Second Deluge I will seek you to-morrow.” 

“ For me,” muttered the Advocate, as he left Vanbrugh, 
“ there may be no to-morrow.” 

Bearing in mind the words of Vanbrugh that he would 
meet his wife and Christian Aimer lower down on the 
road, he looked out for them. He saw no trace of them, 
and presently he began to blunder in his course; he 
searched in vain for a familiar landmark, and he knew not 
in which direction the House of White Shadows was situ- 
ated. Evening was fast approaching when he heard him- 
self hailed by loud shouts. The sounds proceeded from a 
strongly-built stone hut, protected on three sides from 
wind and rain, and so placed that the water from the 
ranges rolled past without injuring it. Standing within 
the doorway was Fritz the Fool. 

Thinking his wife might have sought shelter there, the 
Advocate made his way to it, and found therein assembled, 
in addition to Fritz, old Pierre Lamont, Mother Denise 
and her husband Martin, and their pretty granddaughter 
Dionetta. 

“ Welcome, comrade, welcome,” cried Pierre Lamont. 
“ It is pleasant to see a familiar face. We were compelled 
to fly from the villa, and Fritz here conveyed us here 
to this hospitable hut, where we shall be compelled 


365 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 

to stay till the storm ceases. Where is your fair 
lady?” 

“ It is a question I would ask of you,” said the Advo- 
cate. “ She is not here, then ? ” 

“ No. She left the villa before we did, in the company 
of your friend ” — the slight involuntary accent he placed 
upon the word caused the Advocate to start as though 
he had received a blow — “ Christian Aimer. They have 
doubtless found another shelter as secure as this. We 
wished them to stop for us, but they preferred not to 
wait. Fritz had a hard job of it carrying me to this hut, 
which he claims as his own, and which is stored with pro- 
visions sufficient for a month’s siege. I have robbed the 
old house of its servants — Dionetta here, for whom ” (he 
dropped his voice) “ the fool has a fancy, and her grand- 
mother, whom I shall pension off, and Fritz himself — an 
invaluable fool. Fritz, open a bottle of wine ; do the hon- 
ours of your mansion. The Advocate is exhausted.” 

The Advocate did not refuse the wine; he felt its need 
to sustain his strength for the work he had yet to per- 
form. He glanced round the walls. 

“ Is there an inner room ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes ; there is the door.” 

“ May I crave privacy for a few minutes ? ” 

Pierre Lamont waved his hand, and the Advocate 
walked to the inner room, and closed the door upon him- 
self. 

“ What has come over this man ? ” mused Pierre La- 
mont. “ There is in his face, since yesterday, such a 
change as it is rare in life’s experience to see. It is not 
produced by fatigue. Has he made discovery of his wife’s 
faithlessness and his friend’s treachery. And should I not 
behave honestly to him, and make him as wise as I am on 
events within my knowledge? What use? What use? 
But at least he shall know that the secret of Gautran’s 
guilt is not his alone.” 

In the meantime the Advocate was taking advantage 
of the solitude for which he had been yearning since he 
left the bedside of Pauline. It was not until this moment 
that he could find an opportunity to examine the packet she 
had given him. 


366 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 


It contained what he imagined — the certificate of the 
the birth of his child. He read it and mentally took note 
of the date and also of certain words written on the back, 
in confirmation of the story related to him by John Van- 
brugh. No room was there for doubt. Madeline was his 
child, and by his means her murderer had escaped from 
justice. 

“A just Heaven smote him down,” he thought ; “ so 
should retribution fall upon me. I am partner in his 
crime. Upon my soul lies guilt heavier than his.” 

Within the certificate of birth was a smaller packet, 
which he had laid aside. He took it up now, and removed 
the paper covering. It was the portrait of his daughter, 
Madeline the flower-girl. The picture was that of a 
young girl just budding into womanhood — a girl whose 
laughing mouth and sparkling eyes conveyed to his heart 
so keen a torture that he gave utterance to a groan, and 
covered his eyes with his hand to shut out the reproach. 
But in the darkness he saw a vision which sent violent 
shudders through him — such a vision as had pursued 
Gautran in the lonely woods, as he had seen in the waving 
of branch and leaf, as had hovered over him in his prison 
cell, as he stood by his side in the courthouse during the 
trial from which he emerged a free man. Bitterly was 
this man, who had reached a height so lofty that it seemed 
as if calumny could not touch him, bitterly was he expi- 
ating the error of his youth. 

He folded the portrait of his child within the certificate 
of birth, and replaced them in his pocket. Then, with an 
effort, he succeeded in summoning some kind of compo- 
sure to his features, and the next minute he rejoined Pierre 
Lamont. 

“ You will remain with me,” said the old lawyer; “ it 
will be best.” 

“ Nay,” responded the Advocate, “a plain duty lies be- 
fore me. I must seek my wife.” 

“ She herself is doubtless in a place of shelter,” said 
Pierre Lamont, “ and while this tempest is raging, devas- 
tating the land in every direction, you can scarcely hope to 
find her.” 

“ I shall find her,” said the Advocate in a tone of convic- 


'36 7 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 

tion. “ Stern fate, which has dogged my steps since I 
arrived in Geneva, and brought me to a pass which, were 
you acquainted with the details, would appear incredible 
to you, will conduct me to her side. Were I otherwise 
convinced I must not shrink from my duty.” 

“ Outside these walls,” urged Pierre Lamont, “ death 
stares you in the face.” 

“ There are worse things than death,” said the Ad- 
vocate, with an air of gloomy and invincible resolu- 
tion. 

“ Useless to argue with such a man as yourself,” said 
Pierre Lamont. He turned to Fritz. “ Go, you and your 
friends, into the inner room for a while. I wish to speak 
in private with my friend.” 

“ One moment,” said the Advocate to the fool as he 
was preparing to obey Pierre Lamont. “ You were the 
last to leave the House of White Shadows.” 

“ We were the last humans,” replied Fritz. 

“ In what condition was it at the time ? ” 

“ In a most perilous condition. The waters were rising 
around the walls. It had, I should say, not twelve hours 
to live.” 

“ To live ! ” echoed Pierre Lamont, striving to impart 
lightness to his voice, and signally failing. “ How do you 
apply that, Fritz? ” 

“ Trees live! ” replied Fritz, “ and their life goes with 
the houses they help to build. If the walls of the old 
house we have run from could talk, mysteries would be 
brought to light.” 

“ You have been my wife’s maid,” said the Advocate to 
Dionetta, as she was about to pass him. Dionetta curtsied. 
“ Has she discharged you ? ” 

Dionetta cast a nervous glance at Pierre Lamont, and 
another at Mother Denise. The old grandmother an- 
swered for her. 

“ I thought it as well,” said Mother Denise, “ in all re- 
spect and humility, that so simple a child as Dionetta 
should be kept to her simple life. My lady was good 
enough to give Dionetta a pair of diamond earrings and a 
diamond finger-ring, which we have left behind us.” Fritz 
made a grimace. “ These things are not fit for poor pea- 


368 ONWARD— TO DEATH 

sants, and the pleasure they convey is a dangerous plea- 
sure.” 

“ You are not favourably disposed towards my wife,” 
said the Advocate. ’Mother Denise was silent. “ But you 
are right in what you say. Diamonds are not fit gifts for 
simple maids. I wish you well, you and your grandchild. 

It might have been ” The thought of his own child, 

of the same age as Dionetta, and as beautiful, crossed his 
mind. He brushed his hand across his eyes, and when he 
looked round the room again, he and Pierre Lamont were 
alone. 

“A fool of fools,” said Pierre Lamont, looking after 
Fritz. “ If he and the pretty Dionetta wed — it will be a 
suitable match for beauty to mate with folly — he will be 
father to a family of fools who may, in their way, be 
wiser in their generation than you and I. Your decision 
is irrevocable ? ” 

“ It is irrevocable.” 

“If you do not find your wife you will endeavour to 
return to us ? ” 

“ I shall find her.” 

“ And then ? ” asked Pierre Lamont with a singular 
puckering of his brows. 

“And then ? ” echoed the Advocate absently, and added : 
“ Who can tell what may happen from one hour to an- 
other ? ” 

“ How much does he know ? ” thought Pierre Lamont ; 
“or are his suspicions but just aroused? There is a 
weight upon his soul which taxes all his strength. It is 
grand to see a strong man suffer as he is suffering. Is there 
a mystery in his trouble with which I am not acquainted ? 
His wife — I know about her. Gautran — I know about 
him. But the stranger he left in his study in the middle of 
the night — a broken-down gentleman-vagabond, with a 
spice of wickedness in him — who is he, and what was his 
mission ? Of one thing I must satisfy myself before I am 
assured that he is worthy of my compassion.” Then he 
spoke aloud. “You said just now there are worse things 
than death.” 

“ Aye.” 

“ Disgrace? ” 


369 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 

“ In a certain form that may be borne, and life yet be 
worth the having.” 

“ Good. Dishonour ? ” 

# “ It matters little,” said the Advocate ; “ but were the 
time not precious, I should be curious to learn why you 
desire to get at the heart of my secrets.” 

“ The argument would be too long,” said Pierre Lamont 
with earnestness, “ but I can justify myself. There are 
worse things than death. Pardon me — an older man than 
yourself, and one who is well disposed towards you — for 
asking you bluntly whether such things have come to 
you ? ” 

“ They have. You can read the signs in my face.” 

“ But if you have a secret, the revealing of which would 
be hurtful to you, cannot the mischief be averted ? As far 
as I can expect you have been frank with me. Frankness 
for frankness. Say that the secret refers to Gautran and 
to your defence of him ? ” 

“ I have been living in a fool's paradise,” said the Advo- 
cate with a scornful smile. “ To whom is this known ? ” 

“ To Fritz the Fool, and to me, through him. He saw 
Gautran in your study after the trial ” 

“ Have I been watched ? ” 

“ The discovery was accidental. He was moved by some 
love-verses I read to him, and becoming sentimental, he 
dallied outside Dionetta’s window, after the manner of 
foolish lovers. Then the lights of your study window at- 
tracted him, and he peeped through. When Gautran left 
the villa, Fritz followed him, and heard him in his terri- 
fied soliloquies proclaim his guilt. Were this to go out to 
the world, it would, according to its fashion, construe it in 
a manner which might be fatal to you. But Gautran is 
dead, and I can be silent, and can put a lock on Fritz’s 
tongue — for in my soul I believe you were not aware the 
wretch was guilty when you defended him.” 

“ I thank you. I believed him to be innocent.” 

“ Why, then, my mind is easy. Friend, shake hands. 
He held the Advocate’s hand in his thin fingers, and with 
something of wistfulness, said : “ I would give a year of 
my life if I could prevail upon you to remain with us.” 

“ You cannot prevail upon me. So much being said 


370 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 


between us, more is necessary. The avowal of my igno- 
rance of Gautran’s guilt at the time I defended him — I 
learnt it after the trial, mind you — will not avail me. A 
written confession, sworn upon his dying oath, exists, 
which accuses me of that which the world will be ready to 
believe. Strange to say, this is my lightest trouble. There 
are others of graver moment which more vitally concern 
me — unknown to you, unless, indeed, you possess a wiz- 
ard’s art of divination.” 

“ Comrade,” said Pierre Lamont, slowly and with em- 
phasis, “ there breathes not in the world a woman worth 
the breaking of a man’s heart.” 

“ Stop ! ” cried the Advocate in a voice of agony. 

In silence he and Pierre Lamont gazed upon each other, 
and in the old lawyer’s face the Advocate saw that 
his wife’s faithlessness and his friend’s treachery were 
known. 

“ Enough,” he said ; “ there is for me no deeper shame, 
no deeper dishonour.” 

And he turned abruptly from Pierre Lamont, and left 
the hut staggering like a drunken man. 

“Fritz, Fritz!” cried Pierre Lamont. “Come quick- 
ly ! ” Fritz instantly made his appearance from the inner 
room. “ Look you, Fritz,” said the old lawyer, in hurried, 
excited tones, “ the Advocate has gone upon his mad 
errand — has gone alone. After him at once, and if you 
can save him from the consequences of his desperate 
resolve — -if you can advise, assist him, do so for my sake. 
Quick, Fritz, quick ! ” 

“ Master Lamont,” said Fritz, “ are you asking me to 
do a man’s work ? ’ 

“ Yes, Fritz — you can do no more.” 

“ Well and good. As far as a man dare go, I will go; 
but if a madman persists in rushing upon certain death, it 
will not help him for a fool to follow his example. I am 
fond of life, Master Lamont, doubly fond of it just now, 
for reasons.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to 
the room which contained Dionetta. “ But I will do what 
can be done. You may depend upon me.” 

He was gone at least two hours, and when he returned 
he was exhausted and panting for breath. 


ONWARD— TO DEATH 371 

“ I was never born to be drowned,” he said, and he 
threw himself into a chair, and sat there, gasping. 

“ Well, Fritz, well? ” cried Pierre Lamont. 

“ Wait till I get my breath. I followed this great Ad- 
vocate as you desired, and for some time, so deep was he in 
his dreams, he did not know I was with him. But once, 
when he was waist high in water — not that he cared, it 
was as though he was inviting death — and I, who was 
acquainted with the road through which he was wading, 
pulled him suddenly back and so saved his life, he turned 
upon me savagely, and demanded who I was. He recog-* 
nised me the moment he spoke the words — I will say this 
of him, that in the presence of another man he never loses 
his self-possession, and that, in my belief he would be a 
match for Death, if it presented itself to him in a visible, 
palpable shape. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘you are Fritz the Fool; 
why do you dog me ? ’ ‘ I do not dog you,’ I replied ; 

‘ Master Lamont bade me guide and assist you, if you 
needed guidance and assistance. He is the only man for 
whom I would risk my life.’ ‘ Honesty is a rare virtue/ 
he said ; ‘ keep with me, then, for just as long as you think 
yourself to be safe. You saw my wife and Mr. Aimer leave 
the House of White Shadows. Is it likely they took this 
road ? ’ ‘ They could take no other, and live/ I said, ‘ but 
there is no trace of them. They must have turned back to 
the villa.’ ‘ Could they reach it, do you think? ’ he asked. 
‘A brave man can do wonders,’ I replied ; ‘ some hours 
ago they may have reached it ; but they could not stop in 
the lower rooms, which even at that time must have been 
below water-mark. I will not answer for the upper part of 
the house at this moment, and before morning it will be 
swept away.’ ‘ Guide me as far on the road as you care 
to accompany me,’ said he, ‘ and when you leave me point 
me out the way I should go.’ I did so, and we encountered 
dangers, and but for me he would not have been alive 
when I left him. We came to the bridge which spans the 
ravine of pines, two miles this side of the House of White 
Shadows. A great part of it had been torn away, and 
down below a torrent was rushing fierce enough to beat 
the life out of any living being, human or animal. ‘ There 
is no other way but this,’ I said, ‘ to the House of White 


372 


DOOM OF THE HOUSE 

Shadows. I shall not cross the bridge.’ He said no word, 
but struggled on to the bridge, which — all that was left of 
it — consisted of three slender trunks half hanging over the 
ravine. It was nothing short of a miracle that he got 
across; no sooner was he upon the other side than the 
remaining portion of the bridge fell into the ravine. He 
waved his hand to me, and I soon lost sight of him in the 
darkness. I stumbled here as well as I could. Master 
Lamont, I never want another journey such as that ; had 
not the saints watched over me I should not be here to tell 
the tale. This is the blackest night in my remembrance.” 

“ Do you think he can escape, Fritz?” asked Pierre 
Lamont. 

“ His life is not worth a straw,” replied Fritz. “ Look 
you here, Master Lamont. If I were to see him to- 
morrow, or any other day, alive, I should know that he is 
in league with the Evil One. No human power can save 
him.” 

“ Peace be with him,” said Pierre Lamont. “A great 
man is lost to us — a noble mind has gone.” 

“ Master Lamont,” said Fritz sententiously, “ there is 
such a thing as being too clever. Better to be a simpleton 
than to be over-wise or over-confident. I intend to remain 
a fool to the end of my days. I have no pity for such a 
man. Who climbs must risk the fall. Not rocky peaks, 
but level ground, with bits of soft moss, for Fritz the 
Fool.” 

He slept well and soundly, but Pierre Lamont tossed 
about the whole of the night, thinking with sadness and 
regret upon the downfall of the Advocate. 


CHAPTER V 

THE DOOM OF THE HOUSE OF WHITE SHADOWS 

IN unerring instinct guided him ; a superhuman 
h\ power possessed him; and at midnight — though 
X A. he could keep no count of time — he found himself 
within the gates of the House of White Shadows. Upon 
his lips, contracted and spasmodic with pain and suffering, 


373 


DOOM OF THE HOUSE 

appeared a pitiable smile as he gazed at a window on the 
upper floor, and saw a light. It was reflected from the 
window of Christian Aimer’s room. 

“ There they are,” he muttered ; “ I shall not die 
unavenged.” 

The water was breast high. He battled through it, and 
reached the open door of the villa. Slowly he ascended 
the stairs until he arrived at the landing above. He list- 
ened at Christian Aimer’s door, but heard no sound. En- 
raged at the thought that they might, after all, have 
escaped him, he dashed into the room, and called out the 
names of his wife and friend. Silence answered him. He 
staggered towards the lamp, which stood on a table cov- 
ered with a shade which threw the light downward. Be- 
fore the lamp was a sheet of paper, with writing upon it, 
and bending over it the Advocate saw that it was ad- 
dressed to him, and was intended for his perusal. 

A steadier survey of the room brought its revelations. 
At the extreme end of the apartment lay a woman, still 
and motionless. He crept towards her, knelt by her, and 
lowered his face to hers. It was his wife, cold and dead ! 

A rosy tint was in her cheeks ; a smile was on her lips ; 
her death had brought no suffering with it. 

“ Fair and false,” he said. “ Beauty is a sinful posses- 
sion.” 

Her clothes were wet, and he knew that she had been 
drowned. 

Then, turning, he saw what had before escaped his no- 
tice — the body of Christian Aimer, lying near the 
table. He put his ear to Aimer’s heart and felt a slight 
beating. 

“ He can wait,” muttered the Advocate. “ I will first 
read what he has written.” 

He was about to sit at the table when he heard a surg- 
ing sound without. He stepped into the passage, and saw 
the waters swaying beneath him. 

“ It is well,” he thought. “ In a little while all will be 
over for those who have sinned.” 

This reflection softened him somewhat toward those 
who lay within the room, and by whom he believed himself 
to have been wronged. Was he not himself the greatest 


374 


DOOM OF THE HOUSE 

sinner in that fatal house? He returned to the table and 
read what Christian Aimer had written. 

“ Edward : 

“ I pray that these words may reach your eyes. 
Above all things on earth have I valued your friendship, 
and my heart is wrung with anguish by the reproach that 
I have not been worthy of it. Last night, when your wife 
and I parted, I knew that you had discovered the weak 
and treacherous part I have played towards you, for as I 
turned towards my room — at that very moment, looking 
downward, I saw you below. I did not dare to come to 
you — I did not dare to show my face to the man I had 
wronged. It was my intention to fly this morning from 
your presence and hers, and never to see you more ; and 
also to write to you the words to which, by the memory of 
all that I hold sacred, I now solemnly swear — that the 
wrong I have done you is compassed by sentiment. I do 
not seek to excuse myself ; I know that treachery in 
thought is as base between you and me, as treachery in 
act. Yet in all humbleness I implore you to endeavour to 
find some palliation, though but the slightest, of my con- 
duct in the reflection that sometimes in the strongest 
men — even in such a man as yourself, whose mind and life 
are most pure and noble — error cannot be avoided. We 
are hurried into wrong by subtle forces which wither 
one’s earnest endeavours to step in the right path. Thus 
it has been with me. If you will recall certain words 
which were spoken in our conversation at midnight in the 
room in which this is written, you will understand what 
was meant when I said that I flew to the mountains to rid 
myself, by a happy chance, of a terror which possessed me. 
You who have never erred, you who have never sinned, 
may not be able to find it in your heart to forgive me. If 
it be so, I bow my head to your judgment — which is just, 
as in all your actions you are known to be. But if you 
cannot forgive me, I entreat you to pity me. 

“ You were not in the house to-day when we endeav- 
oured to escape to a place of shelter in which we should be 
protected from this terrible inundation. We did not suc- 
ceed — we were beaten back ; and being engulfed in a sud- 


DOOM OF THE HOUSE 


375 


den rush of waters, I could not save your wife. The ut- 
most I could do was to bear her lifeless body back to this 
fatal house. It was I who should have died, not she ; but 
my last moments are approaching. Think kindly of her 
if you can. 

“ Christian Almer.” 

Had he not been absorbed, not only in the last words 
written by Christian Aimer, but by the reflections which 
they engendered, the Advocate would have known that the 
floods were increasing in volume, and that, in the short 
time he had been in the house, the waters had risen sev- 
eral feet. But he was living an inner life — a life in which 
the spiritual part of himself was dominant. 

He stepped to the body of his wife and said : 

“ Poor child ! Mine the error.” 

Then he knelt by the side of Christian Aimer, and raised 
him in his arms. Aroused to consciousness by the action, 
Aimer opened his eyes. They rested upon the Advocate’s 
face vacantly, but presently they dilated in terror. 

“ Be not afraid,” said the Advocate, “ I have read what 
you have written. I know all.” 

“ I am very weak,” murmured Christian Aimer. “ Do 
not torture me ; say that you pity me.” 

“ I pity and forgive you, Christian,” replied the Advo- 
cate in a very gentle voice. 

“ Thank God ! Thank God ! ” said Aimer, and closed his 
eyes, from which the warrp tears gushed. 

“ God be merciful to sinners ! ” murmured the Advo- 
cate. 

When daylight broke, the House of White Shadows, 
and all that it contained, had been swept from the face of 
the earth. A bare waste was all that remained to mark the 
record of human love and human ambition. 












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